


Farther Away

by KaedeRavensdale



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Dragons kidnapping royalty, Fanart Included, M/M, More specifically a certain royal with a history of getting kidnapped, Ny'alotha, Old Gods, Shadow Priest Anduin, appearance changes, for some reason these tags insist on being in a weird order, transformations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: ‘Sometimes, to ensure peace, you must be willing to fight. And sometimes you must be willing to crush all who would stand in your way beneath your heel.’With the Burning Legion at their gates Azeroth cannot afford to fight a battle on two fronts and Wrathion is determined that if the Twilight Hammer’s plan to free N’zoth can’t be stopped than he can at least throw a wrench into it. That wrench just happens to be an only slightly willing Anduin. ‘Benevolent’ still isn’t quite the right word for the result but he’d always considered his Consort a bit too kind for his own good anyway.





	1. Not Even a Proper Hello

**Author's Note:**

> This is vaguely inspired by ausmac's Darkness Take My Soul  
> I wanted to play around with Old Gods, N'zoth specifically, and the concept of a slightly darker Anduin so this is what we ended up with. I'm having fun with writing this so hopefully it's at least mildly amusing to read. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Page gift art by icey/elbrethali.

‘Homicidal’ was one emotion Anduin Llane Wrynn had thought himself utterly incapable of yet that was the only adjective his mind could supply as it rapidly spiraled down into a red abyss of pure rage. This was far closer to the realm of a Warrior than he’d ever managed to get during his actual training but he really shouldn’t have been surprised. Wrathion always had been gifted with evoking from him powerful emotions.

Years ago they’d been tender ones. At the current moment, looking at him and his stupidly red eyes and his stupidly sharp smirk and his stupidly _stupid_ face made Anduin want to wrap his fingers around the Dragon’s throat and squeeze until his head popped off! All of his normally present pacifist tendencies had voluntarily self-defenestrated at the very sight of the Black Dragon; his fingers twitched and sparks of Holy Magic fell to the stone ground of Lion’s Rest with a faint hiss.

“Ah, my-.”

“ _Don’t!”_ the snarl which ripped out of him echoed those his father had been known for and grief at the thought slammed into him in a concussive wave. Anduin staggered. Bracing himself against the white bricks and nearly sliding fully to the ground. “Don’t you fucking dare! I’m not ‘your’ anything. Not anymore. This is your fault: _all of this!_ Why are you even here?”

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes but Anduin held them back with sheer force of will. Gasping in sharp, shuddering breaths in an effort to keep himself from coming apart at the seams. He wasn’t a child anymore, wasn’t a Prince anymore, and the Black Dragonflight had done so much to his family even before Wrathion had come into his life that Anduin hadn’t had the excuse of not knowing better to hide behind even back then. Certainly not now. He was the High King of the Alliance now and he had to be strong. To lead his faction in his father’s place, whose death was as much Wrathion’s fault as it would have been had he killed him himself. He was the last of the House of Wrynn whose duty it was to marry a woman-most likely Tess at this point and honestly he’d prefer that because at least they were friends-and produce Heirs in spite of his preference and the fact that he didn’t have a heart to give her in any capacity because Wrathion had ripped it out and set it on fire years before.

“I didn’t want this.” Wrathion said, something verging on apologetic edging his voice. None of that mattered, though, because it was all but certainly a lie. Lying was all Black Dragons knew, ‘uncorrupted’ or not. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Anduin spat, acid in his words. “You’re not. I know you’re not. You only ever saw me and everyone else around you as pawns in ‘protecting’ Azeroth and a fine job you’ve done of that: because of that stunt with Garrosh you led the Legion straight to us!”

“You’re the one who thought the Orc could change.”

_“I was wrong!”_ Anduin lurched forwards, grabbing fistfuls of the Dragon’s tunic and shaking him for all that he was worth. Knocking his turban to the ground where it rolled away into the shadows behind the empty coffin. “I was _wrong_ , Wrathion! About him. About you. Garrosh couldn’t be reasoned with and you’re just like every other member of your Flight.”

“I’m sorry, Anduin. Truly. I know that I hurt you.” A too warm hand rested lightly on the one that held him by the collar, touch gentle and too familiar. Invoking a rush of memories which, at the moment, were most unwelcome. Memories he’d tried to bury. Shared games by the fire. Views taken together from atop Mason’s Folly. Nights spent curled up watching the rain as it slithered down the tavern’s windows. “You’re my only friend. Much more than that. Truly precious to me. But I’ve obligations and I thought that you of all people would be able to understand that. My miscalculation was in the fact that you’re mortal, and among the shortest lived of them. It’s in your nature not to be capable of grasping such things.”

“I trusted you.” It was meant to be accusatory but sounded desperate instead. This time he couldn’t keep the tears from spilling over and they slid down his face in silver threads. “And you betrayed me. I wasn’t ready for him to leave. It only happened because of you. He was the only family I had and I only truly had him for two years. And now he’s _gone_ because of you.” Anduin’s grip tightened to such a degree that the bones in his fingers threatened to break. “I could have loved you. I did. I hate you. Because this is all your fault.”

Claw-tipped fingers caught at his shoulders and drew him in and Anduin let himself be moved. Let himself fall against the Dragon’s chest and bury his face in the soft fabric and cry the tears that he’d been holding back since the Legion had breached their world. Holding him at least partially upright when his knees gave out from the strain. He heard Wrathion draw breath to speak and braced himself for some empty comfort or worthless apology to fall from near-violet lips. Instead the Dragon had the absolute gall to say “I need your help, my dear King.”

Wrathion had wound him around his fingers and played him like a violin, turned on him at the trial and aided Garrosh’s escape, disappeared for years and ultimately caused his father’s death and now he had the spine, or perhaps simply the necessary level of psychopathy, to come waltzing into his life as if nothing had happened at all and ask for favors?

Spitting in disgust Anduin pushed him away with enough force to send the Dragon to the stones with a thud and nearly went down himself. Baring his teeth wildly. The anger returning all at once with a rush that made his head spin. “Get out of my city!”

Eyes narrowed and clothing rumpled but otherwise unaffected by the fall the Black Prince pushed himself back upright. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

“Get out! Get! Out! Or I will call the guard!”

Wrathion was back on his feet now, looming in a way which almost absurd in how threatening it was. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that, my dear King.” He growled. “You will listen. And if I have to hurt you to make you listen I will, though I’ll take no pleasure in it.”

“You threaten royalty!”

“Royalty,” the Black Prince snarled, “is being impertinently unreasonable!”

“I’ll show you unreasonable! _Guards!”_

“Anduin!” The warning in Wrathion’s voice only seemed to spur the blonde into roaring louder.

“ ** _Guards!”_** The clang of armor could be heard from nearby. Wrathion snarled, his half-elf form disappearing into a puff of smoke and sparks. The third call for aid died on Anduin’s lips and he stumbled back, blue eyes wide with shock. Wrathion couldn’t be much older than five, should still be a whelp, and yet what stood before him was a Black Wyrm the size of Onyxia. Talons wrapped around his chest as leathery wings stretched wide, dragging the Black Prince’s hulking form up off the ground just as a contingent of the royal guard came rushing down the stairs into the rebuilt park.

“Black Dragon!” One shouted, the first of many to reach for his crossbow. “It has his majesty! Bring it down!”

“No! Hold your fire you idiots!” Another shouted, throwing out an arm and knocking the nearest crossbow back down. “You might hit the King!”

But it had all become a rather moot point anyway as Wrathion had risen out of crossbow range. Banking out over the harbor and to the North as the city’s alarm bells began to toll.

“Wrathion!” The talons were squeezing him too hard. His ribs were creaking and it was difficult to breathe. The rush of the wind whipping past stealing what little air he did manage to draw into his compressed lungs. Pounding on the Dragon’s fingers with his fists did nothing. His head was swimming too much to effectively call a spell to mind. “Wrathion! Please! You’re going to kill me!”

But the grip didn’t let up, only seeming to tighten. Black spots appeared in his vision, rapidly coalescing into a dark tide closing in around his vision. He tried to cry out again but couldn’t and lost consciousness a moment later.

Soaring around a jut in the rocky cliffs which lined the waters to the North of Stormwind city, relatively certain he was now out of sight and reach of the Alliance Capital’s pursuing Griffin Riders, Wrathion angled his wings forward and pulled himself into a hover fifty feet above the waves. Looking down at the limp form still clutched, more lightly now, in his forepaw. Anduin’s limbs dangled unnaturally like those of a puppet with cut strings, arms held half aloft by the stiff fabric of his blue and golden overcoat. His back bowed with his weight and his head tipped much too far back for Wrathion’s liking. Quickly, careful not to hurt him any further, the Dragon adjusted his grip so that the Human King’s neck and spine were in less danger of breaking. Delicately, with the sharp point of one talon, he brushed blonde hair-grown long in his absence like his father’s before him and beginning to escape from the tail which held it in check-away from his face. A thin trickle of blood, almost black in the darkness, trickled from the corner of his mouth.

He’d only meant to knock him out. Hadn’t meant to do whatever damage had drawn the blood inside him which now leaked from his lips. Hopefully the injuries weren’t life threatening. There was still quite a ways to go and he wasn’t certain if there were any healers among the other Dragon’s retinue of mortal zealots.

“I’m sorry, Anduin.” How many times had he repeated that phrase by now, if only to himself in his own mind, since the day in Kunlai where he’d watched the sleeping spell he’d cast send his bright-eyed Consort to the ground? The Prince, no King now, was understandably displeased with him but that was to be expected. Some small consolation came in knowing he’d soon have an eternity to earn the little blonde’s forgiveness. “I’d hoped things wouldn’t come to this.”

The Human was unconscious and, of course, couldn’t hear him. Once more adjusting the tilt of his wings the Earthwarder resumed his flight towards the Burning Steppes.

It seemed to take a small eternity before Blackrock Mountain came into sight, its massive form stark against the red haze which hung over the horizon like a pall. The crumbling railing of black stone passed beneath him not long after and he alighted softly on his hind legs, setting the young Priest’s body gently on the warm stone before shifting back into his smaller half-elf form.

“It seems the mortal was about as willing as could have been expected.”

“Watch your tone, Twilight!” Red eyes narrowed, Wrathion’s entire body bristled simultaneously with insult on his Consort’s behalf at being referred to so flippantly and the instinct to protect him. His own mistakes may have forced him down the path he now walked, allied him however loosely with the remnants of the Twilight’s Hammer and the twisted Dragons his father had created but that in no way meant they weren’t still very much a threat. “This ‘mortal’ is soon to be your Master!”

“You truly believe that there will be anything left of him beyond his body once we’re finished, little Black?” the raven hair of her Blood Elf form cascaded over one shoulder as she tilted her head, considering what she could see of the blonde’s static form around Wrathion’s defensive stance between them. “What makes you so certain things will work out in your favor?”

“Because the Light is the Void’s inherent opposite and it abhors corruption. And I don’t know of anyone stronger in it than him.”

The Dragoness laughed, her tone dripping with snide condescension. “N’zoth will devour his soul and take his body as its own. A high honor, yes, but one your precious Human won’t survive. Not as you know him.”

“The only one who will be ‘taking’ anything from this will be Anduin!”

“We’ll see.” She sneered. “Now step aside so I can drain his mana. Or did you expect to restrain this supposedly prodigal Priest while he retains the ability to smite you into the Twisting Nether?”

“He’ll be unconscious for a white longer I’m sure, Zeryxia. You can strip his mana once one of your addled pets has treated his wounds. I did more damage than I meant to.”

“Of course, ‘Earthwarder’. But only because he needs to be alive when he’s offered to the Master.” The butt of the black staff she carried struck sparks against the broken tiles. A pair of hooded figures emerged from the shadows and approached. “Take him to Xedi. Handle with care.”

Fumbling unfamiliar fingers touching his helpless Consort’s form again prodded at his protective instincts but Wrathion held himself back from leaping onto the men. They lifted Anduin’s limp form between them and carried him away into the darkness of what had once been his elder brother’s lair. With a last haughty glance over her pointed shoulder the ‘Mistress of Twilight’ followed, leaving him alone.

An arid wind rattled across the open balcony, tugging at his black curls. Shooting a look of distaste at Nefarian’s throne, more for what it was attached to than what it was, Wrathion turned and crossed back to the railing. Splaying his hands against it and leaning out over the edge. Gazing down over the rolling, charred land far below. If his plan succeeded he’d not only have forever neutralized both the Twilight’s Hammer and the only Old God which yet remained a threat but would rebuff the Legion and force the fighting between the Factions to finally stop bringing a true and lasting peace to Azeroth. But if it went wrong, as had all his other plans before it, the results would be truly terrible. An Old God would be fully unleashed. Azeroth as the Titans had reforged it would be no more. And worst of all he’d have sacrificed Anduin, his soul consumed by the Void as if he’d simply never been.

“Please.” Wrathion didn’t know who or what he was pleading to but he supposed it didn’t matter in the end as long as it worked. His clawed fingers curled around the railing’s edge. “Let this one work. For the sake of this world. For _his_ sake. Don’t let this end in failure like the others.”

 

* * *

 

 

The rising sun had just begun to stain the horizon above the harbor’s waters pink and the early morning air was still almost bitingly cold but Tess Greymane didn’t allow the chill or the early hour or the fact that she was barefoot at that given moment, having left her boots behind in her haste, to bother her. There were far more important things upon which she needed to focus her attention foremost amongst them the fact that the King had been carried off by a Black Dragon of unknown identity and origin while he’d been grieving for his father at Lion’s Rest. Where had the beast come from? What did it want? How had it had managed to escape notice in all the years which had passed since the Cataclysm ?

Her first thoughts when she’d heard the news was that it must have been Wrathion, the self-proclaimed last of his kind and once lover whose betrayal had destroyed Anduin back before the Iron Horde’s invasion. But that simply couldn’t be. Though still far from the largest man the High King had grown considerably since his teenaged years when they’d first met and would simply be too heavy for a whelp, no matter how determined, to make off with. And besides the royal guard had been insistent of the fact that his abductor had been a fully grown Wyrm.

Could it have come through the Dark Portal? She’d heard stories from some of the veterans of a sizeable group of Black Dragons living in the Blade’s Edge Mountains.

In the end she supposed the beast’s identity mattered little: its source and allegiance were far more important as they’d be better clues in quickly locating and recovering the lost regent. Was it working for the Twilight’s Hammer, if the Cult even still existed? Had it simply engaged in the folkloricly favored Draconic pastime of kidnapping royalty without warning or compunction? Was it working for the Legion? With countless scenarios spinning through her head, all of which ended in various ill fates for her by now close friend, the Gilnean Heiress took the steps down into Lion’s Rest two at a time.

Mathias Shaw glanced over at her approach, raising an eyebrow at the absence of her boots but not commenting on the matter. “Princess Greymane.”

“I don’t want to hear a word. Anduin is a dear friend and I am not a helpless child. I am involved and I am helping.”

The leader of SI: 7 had apparently expected some such assertion as all he did was nod. “I’d imagined that you would.” He said, beginning to walk down the paved path back towards the monument itself. “The Dragon caused a small amount of damage during its landing, which was presumably when it captured King Anduin, that will need to be repaired. The Griffin Riders gave chase to the North but last the beast quickly: they kept up just long enough to witness the monster knock the King unconscious. Given that the method it used was cutting off his air by squeezing him it’s likely he’s injured. Potentially seriously so.”

“It went North?”

“Presumably. We’re searching the area in hopes it may have dropped something which might reveal its identity.” He said. “If it continued in that direction the most likely place it fled to would be Blackrock Mountain, the once lair of Blackwing. We’re in the process of organizing an assault. If you’re interested in heading that…?”

“Very.” Tess barely gave him the chance to finish speaking. “How likely do you think it is to have dropped something on its way out?”

“Not very. But information is crucial in such circumstance as this and we can’t afford to miss anything.” That much she could understand, anything they could learn about the creature’s identity could better prepare them to succeed in Anduin’s rescue, but that knowledge didn’t stop the entire matter from feeling like a pointless waste of time. Apparently able to read her expression, or perhaps because he was feeling much the same way himself, Shaw said “I know. None of us like it but it has to be done.”

“Hopefully, if they do find something, it will happen soon.”

No sooner had she said that did a call from the head of the empty coffin echo across the open yard. An agent rushed over moments later clutching a coiled nest of fine white fabric in one hand. Shaw took it in confusion, turning it over in his hands and squinting at it as if expecting the cloth to suddenly divulge some useful secret. “Fabric?”

“That’s the Black Prince’s turban!” Tess said. “I never saw him myself but I recognize it from Anduin’s descriptions. But…Wrathion can’t possibly be that big: even Dragon’s don’t grow that fast!”

“Not naturally.” He agreed, turning the turban over yet again just for good measure. “But this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve encountered Dragons which are far bigger than they should be. And if that’s the case the Black Prince may not truly be as uncorrupted as he claims.”

“We _need_ to find Anduin!” Whether Wrathion was acting alone or not this situation couldn’t possibly end well. And with their already precarious position against both the Legion and the Horde finding the last of the Wrynns slaughtered on an Old God’s altar would be the death blow of the Alliance. “When is the soonest they can set out? And how long will it take to get to that mountain?”

“Everything should be in place by midday. The journey there should take just over a day after that. I’ve already sent scouts ahead.” The Spy Master said grimly. “Light will it that he lasts that long.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin felt like he’d been stepped on by a Tauren and then dipped in solid lead. His sides ached where Wrathion had squeezed his lights out, more than a few of his ribs likely having been broken by the force, and though it was obvious he’d been healed it was equally clear that the person responsible was not by any stretch of the imagination a Healer. He could taste old blood in his mouth.

When he attempted to reach for the Light and, if not see to the damage himself, at least somewhat ease the pain nothing happened beyond a vaguely familiar fizzling sensation which shot up his spine. He was out of mana, wrung entirely dry, but couldn’t understand how that could possibly be. As much as he’d wanted to subject the scheming Dragon to a couple healthy doses of penance and few good holy fires he hadn’t gotten the chance, hadn’t used any of his abilities at all before he’d lost consciousness, and presumably had remained so until just a moment ago.

Had he been drained?

“Yes.” Anduin nearly jumped a mile at the sound of Wrathion’s voice from beside him; apparently he’d said that last bit outloud without meaning to. “A necessary precaution, my dear King, I’m truly sorry. But I needed you to listen and the only way I could insure you’d do so without…shall we call it overreacting…was to temporarily strip your mana. Loath as I am to admit that they have any redeeming qualities, the magical vampirism of the Twilight Dragonflight was intrinsic in matters here.”

“Twilight-?” his voice was dry and raspy and it was difficult to muster the necessary strength to properly operate his tongue. “Explain!”

“Of course, my dear King, but first please drink this.” He held out a small bottle filled with a pearly potion Anduin had never seen before. The blonde eyed the vial suspiciously. “It will help with the pain and give you a bit more energy to work with. You’ll be able to satisfactorily question me that way.”

Wrathion couldn’t help but think that the blonde looked terribly like his father when he glared like that. It didn’t suit him. The young King snatched the bottle away and reluctantly drank, grimacing once he’d finished and dropping the glass onto the threadbare sheets.

“Not pleasantly flavored, I’ll admit.” Wrathion’s effort at levity went unrewarded. “First question?”

“How are you so bloody big?” much like the lion adorning Stormwind’s standard Anduin pounced on the matter and sank in his teeth.

“By use of the same process which artificially aged newly hatched Twilight Dragons to their full maturity.” He said. “Given circumstances, I required a more capable form.”

“So you’ve joined the Old Gods, have you?”

“No.” Wrathion was careful to keep his voice calm. “I learned of a…concerning plot by the Hammer to free N’zoth from his captivity by using a mortal sacrifice as his host: transferring the essence of the Old God into them and transforming them into something rather unmentionable. I couldn’t allow it to go through in the way they planned but at the same time saw an opportunity to create a comparatively benevolent version of an Old God which could assist me in managing this world. But the mortal in question would have to be extraordinarily gifted in the Light in order for such a thing to stand any chance of success and I thought of you-.”

“Haven’t you done enough to me already, Wrathion? If you think I’m going to allow you to tie me to some altar-!”

“Don’t be melodramatic, you’re not going to die. Any normal mortal would be assimilated without issue but you would be able to fight, and if you won then you’d be the one doing the assimilating.”

“ _If_ I won? Are you insane? The Old Gods are worse than the Legion and I refuse to even consider playing host to one-.”

“You wouldn’t be ‘playing host’ to anything. If this works you’ll _literally_ be one!”

“ _Is that supposed to make the thought of it more attractive? Clearly you’re not as able at understanding the people around you as I’d once thought but what in the Light’s name in the time you were around me ever left you with the slightest impression I would ever **want** to be a God?”_

Maybe that had been a slight miscalculation; most mortals would be quick to jump on the opportunity but leave it to Anduin to be the frustrating exception. “This could be the thing you’re meant for.” Blue eyes shot him through with a scorching glare. “No. Hear me out. You want peace above all else, yes? Well then, speak softly and carry a big stick. And what bigger stick is there than a wrathful eldritch being whose both capable and willing to get involved in any petty squabbles that arise? The whole ‘urge to alter the face of the planet’ matter won’t be of issue either: with the amount of damage that’s already been done it’s rather clear Azeroth will need to be reshaped by the time this is over anyway.”

“No! The answer is still and always will be-!”

“It might even give you more time with your father.”

Anduin visibly flinched and shrank back, his expression morphing into a caustic mix of grief and anger. “No, you don’t get to do that! I will not let you use my father’s death as a tool to manipulate me!”

“I am not ‘manipulating’ anything.” It was painful to know that the blonde would immediately jump to that conclusion but, given their history, Wrathion supposed he couldn’t blame him. “I don’t know if it’s true, no one knows the full extent of an Old God’s powers, but it’s possible that if you do this death will mean nothing to you. You might be able to have him back. Your doing this might let me give him back to you.” Blue eyes shot away, the lack of eye contact and the curl of his shoulders the only sign that Anduin was beginning to waver. “I want that for you more than anything. For you to be happy. After all that I’ve hurt you I want to be able to undo at least some of it.”

Those curled shoulders had begun to shake. In an effort to stifle a sob the young King had pressed a gloved hand over his mouth. Seeing as he’d had little qualms about crying on him the night before Wrathion couldn’t see why he was attempting to conceal his weakness now. Of course, that probably had more to do with a desire not to leave him with the accurate impression that he was winning than anything else. A few more pushes in the right direction and his will would crumble.

He felt terrible about taking such actions, of course, but this was necessary for all of them.

Circling around the cot he’d been left on by the Cult members Wrathion caught his chin in a gentle grip and forced Anduin’s head to turn towards him. His cheeks were red and wet with the tears he was struggling futilely against shedding and his blue eyes were glassy and over bright.

“Let go.” He had to force the words through his teeth between sobs. The Dragon summarily ignored him, beginning the intensive process of kissing away those tears the same way he had back in the Tavern of the Mists, years ago, on nights where the nightmares and the pain from his healing wounds had become too much to bear. “No!” Clumsy hands fumbled in an attempt to push him away but the effort met with no affect. “Stop it! You don’t get to do this, any of this, anymore. Not after you left me. Not when you’re sitting there asking for this.”

“Yes, I left you, and I’ve regretted it every second since but that’s not what’s important now.” Anduin jerked back further, face a daze of annoyance and betrayal and entirely too choked up to speak. “If you truly do not want to help me thwart them than I won’t force this one you.”

“You think the Twilight’s Hammer is going to let me just walk away if they’re really planning to-.”

“I will do whatever I have to in order to get you back to your people safely if that is what you wish but it won’t stop their plan from going forward. They’ll use another. N’zoth will walk free and wreak havoc on a world already so beset by the Legion that it won’t be able to fight back. In that scenario, wedged between Sargeras and the Black Empire, this world is doomed. Your kingdom will last only months more. But if you do this…”

“It’s all but certain not to work, Wrathion, and if it doesn’t it will be _my hand_ which destroys them.”

“My dear King, it’s your hand either way. The chance of success if you do this is small, yes, but it’s a brighter outcome than if you walk away.”

Anduin spared nothing in glaring at him again but Wrathion already knew, before his shoulders sagged and he hung his head, that the young King would agree. He wasn’t pleased with the matter and likely never would be but he cared enough about his people that he’d think little of sacrificing everything he was if it meant protecting them.

Using that fact to his advantage was, perhaps, unsporting but what was done was done.

“If this goes pear-shaped,” he hissed, “you’d better believe that I will be after your sorry tail before _anything_ else!”

Wrathion’s smile was all sharp edges. “Thank you, my dear King. You’ve made the right choice.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know.” There was a tinge of sadness to the words as he stepped away, fingers trailing lightly along the smaller male’s set jawline. “I can only hope that someday, a millennia from now, I’ll have earned your forgiveness.”

“Make it five millennia and I might consider it. Provided you display good behavior.”

Had that been a joke? The briefest flash of a smile, perhaps? It was gone too fast to tell. “Of course,” he said. “Only my very _best_ behavior from this point forwards.”


	2. Ten Years in One Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to elbrethali for the fanart.

It was hard for him to tell time in the windowless halls of Blackrock Mountain but from what Anduin could gather he’d been there for at least half a day. Most of that time had been spent lying limp as old leather on the lumpy uncomfortable cot he’d woken up in exhausted both physically and mentally by his prolonged state of mana drain, the expression of the emotions he’d kept bottled up for the better part of the month it had been since his father’s death on the Broken Shore and the implications of what he’d been needled into agreeing to. The dry dimness of the room which he’d been left in had begun to grow monotonous and he wished that he had someone to talk to who wasn’t crazy, even if that meant the bitter Twilight Dragoness Zeryxia or Wrathion. His leg hurt, old injuries agitated into inflammation by his recent rough treatment, but he’d waved away the offer of the Troll who had healed his other wounds to see to it. Not only was she plainly not skilled in putting things back together, as evidenced by the shoddy work she’d already done, but the manic sycophantism which seemed to infect the Cult members whenever they saw him left Anduin feeling deeply uncomfortable. For that reason, among a number of others, he preferred to avoid unnecessary contact with them.

He wished that he had at least some mana left, even if it was only dregs. It wouldn’t be enough to fuel even the simplest of spells, but it would give him the chance to feel the Light flow through him a final time. Regardless of the way things turned out, good or bad, he knew that his days basking in its warmth were over. It was only the endless cold of the Void which lay before him now.

“Is it bothering you, my dear King?”

Removing his hands from where they’d rested on his knee, Anduin raised his head. Wrathion stood in the doorway with a wicker basket in his arms, curls hanging in his eyes and the golden caps on his horns glinting in the low light. With a dull start the young King realized that this was the longest time he’d ever seen the Dragon go without something to cover his head.

“A bit.” He admitted, tone kept calm but cold. If the Black Prince was disappointed by this he didn’t show it. “You weren’t exactly gentle when you spirited me away. Just because I’m able to walk without a cane now doesn’t mean my wounds from the Divine Bell are healed. Or that they’ll ever be.” The aching stiffness had become such a fixture in his life that Anduin had almost forgotten what it was like not to live in constant pain. “If getting turned into an Old God doesn’t fix my leg I’m done.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve warmed enough to the idea that you’re able to have a go at humor.”

“Who said it was a joke?”

Wrathion made an indecipherable noise which really could have meant anything. Anduin didn’t bother attempting to untangle it. “You seem more willing to speak with me today.”

“Willing? No. Just desperate to spend a bit of time around someone who doesn’t drool whenever they see me and is capable of comprehending the fact that my name is _not_ ‘Master’.” He grumbled, collapsing back against the cot with a creak and a groan. “It’s not an attractive look on anyone. Especially not a female Troll.”

Wrathion smirked. “Most people would find cultishly devoted servants willing to do absolutely anything if it means even being marginally noticed by them to be novel.”

“If I did it wore off too soon for me to notice.” Anduin said. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to.” Wrathion told him. “But I thought it pertinent to await your permission instead of barging in.”

“Since when have you required permission to do anything?” it was said bitterly with blue eyes focused on the ceiling. “You don’t care what others think of your actions. Not even those you claim to care about.”

“Who, my dear King, do you think I’m only claiming to care about?”

“Me.” The reply was worryingly devoid of emotion and fell from his lips like a stone. “Even as blind as you make me I’m not a fool. I know that you forced me into this, regardless of how cleverly you think you managed to go about backing me into a corner. You knew that I would do anything, even sacrifice my own soul, if it meant my people’s future. You knew because I’m the one who told you that on the same night you took my purity.” He didn’t mention that that had also been the last night they’d spent together, just hours before Kairozdormu’s plan had been set in motion. Nor that it had been well after Wrathion had determined the then Prince to be of less importance than his mandate as the Earthwarder.

“I was selfish.” Crossing the room, he set the basket down on the ground and lightly sat on the edge of the cot. The candid admission seemed to have struck Anduin momentarily dumb and he made no effort to protest. “And I’m sorry. I’d known, from the beginning, that if push came to shove I’d choose Azeroth’s safety above all else no matter what that meant giving up or how much it mattered to me. But I didn’t want to leave without making you mine because I feared you’d have found another by the time I returned. That you’d be happy with them and that they’d be better for you than I ever could be. I’m alone. I was scared, then, that I always would be alone. I’m scared now.”

Silence stretched so long between them that he’d become convinced Anduin wouldn’t respond, would simply dismiss his words as yet another manipulation when they were the truest thing he’d ever spoken, but then the blonde sighed and pushed himself upright. Throwing his legs off the side of the cot with the rattle of fabric and leaning one of his shoulders against him: a common practice from long ego meetings in a mist choked land which spoke volumes more than any words ever could.

“Do you remember, in Kunlai, when you told me that when you got a little larger you’d let me ride on your back and take me on grand adventures which would age my father ten years in one night?” at the mention of Varian his voice cracked but the tears did not return, Anduin’s gaze kept stubbornly on the opposite wall. “I think it’s safe to say that you’re ‘a little larger’ now. Will you take me flying?”

“We can’t go far.”

Anduin huffed and wrinkled his nose. “Of course not. I’m a prisoner after all.”

Wrathion frowned but didn’t try to argue that point, instead bending down to pick the basket back up. “I’ll take you out across the Burning Steppes, and perhaps the Searing Gorge as well, after you’ve eaten. I brought us lunch. Surely you must be hungry by now.”

“A bit.” He admitted. “Though I’ll confess to being dubious about the appetizing nature of anything the Twilight’s Hammer has lying around.”

“No need to worry about being served something unsavory: I caught this Emberworg myself.” Wrathion pulled the lid off the basket and lifted out a small box filled with sandwiches that looked like they’d been made by a drunken ogre. “And the bread is safe as well. This meal is nothing compared to Stormwind’s royal fare and certainly nothing against what Tong could make but it will do in a pinch and I’ve some Moonberry Juice as well.” Carefully removing one of the sandwiches from the box, stringy grey meat spilling from between the halves of a biscuit which strongly resembled a rock, he held it out to Anduin who took it with a moment’s further hesitation.

Eyeing it a bit more before submitting to his hunger and taking a bite the young King had to struggle not to choke. “Light, Wrathion, this meat is so well done it’s like tack! What did you do, light it on fire?”

“What did you think Dragons did, ate their prey raw like animals?” the blonde’s snort almost made him choke again. “Does this mean I may not have to wait millennia for your forgiveness after all?”

The amusement slid off Anduin’s face, replaced by a pensive and somewhat guarded expression which looked all together wrong on him. “I’ve been thinking about whether or not I’d forgive you ever since you left and I think I’ll continue thinking about it until all of this is over with. Ask me once you’re mad plan has gone through if I make it out the other side.”

“But what if you don’t?”

“I’ll be nothing but a memory and none of this will matter anymore. And you’ll have to live forever wondering. I think that’s punishment enough.”

Wrathion shifted in discomfort. Anduin reached over with his free hand and intertwined their fingers. The Black Prince had to restrain himself from squeezing that hand until the delicate bones inside it broke all in an effort to hold onto all he stood to possibly lose. In order to distract himself he used the hand which wasn’t occupied by Anduin’s to pour them each a drink from the clay pitcher he’d brought with him. “Here.”

The rest of their meal passed in a quiet which verged on companionable.  With the aid of four cups of the almost cloyingly sweet juice Anduin managed to get down one whole sandwich and half of a second before deeming the barely edible product of Wrathion’s labors no longer worth the effort.

“How long until we leave for wherever it is that the Hammer is planning to have this done?”

“Zeryxia and her allies have been prepared to set out since before I retrieved you but I’ve been pushing the matter back as much as I can.” Leaving the basket on the floor, Wrathion started towards the door. “You’ll need all the strength that you can muster if you’re going to face N’zoth in a mental and spiritual battle for your body. I’d prefer we stay here for at least a week so that you can rest but I know that isn’t truly tenable.”

“Because Stormwind is looking for me.”

“My dear King,” Wrathion playfully tugged the still barely clinging azure band from his hair, prompting Anduin to half-squawk in dismay as the golden strands were freed to flop into his face, “if the entirety of the Alliance isn’t after me over this yet they will be soon. Give your worth to them more credit. But yes. It is because a rescue mission is sure to be soon on the horizon and Blackrock Mountain is certain to be one of the first places they look due to its past ties with my Flight.”

“If you wouldn’t mind returning my tie?”

“I’ll do you one better,” before the smaller male could protest Wrathion had slid behind him and pulled his hair back, “and fix it myself. You can’t go flying with your hair like this or you’ll end up with a kobold nest on your head.”

Anduin’s grumble was half-hearted, largely relegated to a demand that he be mindful how hard he tugged. Rolling his eyes while well aware the other couldn’t see the Black Dragon carefully carded his claws through small tangles.

“I’ve always been fond of your hair.” He noted idly, sliding a lock between his fingers. “Any Dragon would, of course, be partial to the color and it’s so intriguingly different than mine; gilt curtains finer than the most expensive of Four Winds Silk. Much more impressive to look at than woolen, coal black curls.”

Anduin had found his rapidly developed obsession with his then much shorter hair to be a strange if amusing quirk of Wrathion’s when they’d first met. Back then he’d still been small enough to perch atop the Human’s head like some absurd hat won at the Darkmoon Faire, balancing with the aid of his tail lightly wrapped around the pale column of his throat where Wrathion could feel his pulse. Anduin hadn’t minded, usually. He probably would now.

“Any particular significance behind letting it get this long?” the Black Prince smoothed the fine strands back a final time before sliding the band back into its proper place. “A lion must have a mane, I suppose, but surely this is a great trouble to care for.”

“Long hair and Wrynn men, once they’re considered men, are a bit of a time honored pairing. My father’s hair was short when he was young too, as was my grandfather’s.” Anduin reached around to tug lightly on the fixed tail, a display of nerves he must have developed in Wrathion’s absence. “And because I thought there must be something desirable about it if the world’s most selective whelp was so obsessed.”

Unsure and self-conscious about his image were not things which Wrathion would ever have thought to link with the Priest beside him. Clearly his betrayal had done more damage than he’d thought.

“There’s not a thing about you that’s undesirable.” Carefully, watching his expression for any signs of discomfort, Wrathion rested a hand against the small of his back. “But there’d be no you if there was no Azeroth. The balcony is just over here.”

A broken staircase led through a wide, low slung doorway and out onto the balcony. Anduin squinted against the bright scarlet light which seemed to come from all directions through the volcanic veil which hung at cloud level. Mindful of the crumbling state of the railing he approached the edge and peered over the side. A charred expanse of grey soil, lava veined stone and blackened skeletal trees stretched below them. The area wasn’t particularly pretty but it was still new and exciting and another taste of the freedom what he’d never truly had.

If there was one good thing which might come from taking part in Wrathion’s plan it was that, in the future once the Legion was gone and the damage they’d caused had been repaired, he could explore for an eternity and leave no stone on Azeroth, Outland and Alternate Draenor unturned.

Wrathion’s talons gripped the tail of his blue and gold overcoat and tugged, tearing through the fabric with a loud ripping sound. “You’ll broil if you wear that around here.”

“I can’t ‘wear it around’ anywhere now thanks to you.” Anduin shot back with only mild heat, pulling the coat off and laying it over his arm. “You ripped it your great brute.”

“It looked uncomfortable anyway.”

Rolling his eyes Anduin turned away from the view to face the Dragon. “Now that there’s a bit of light I can get a proper look at you.” Wrathion’s scales were the color of jet, overlain against each other in smooth slabs like plated armor. Spines adorned his shoulders and his wings were a great expanse of scarlet webbing. His head was crowned with a triple set of horns which, much to his amusement, sported the same piercings as his half-elf form.

“Like what you see, my dear King?”

“Don’t fish for compliments.” Anduin wrapped his hands around the horn on his snout when Wrathion gently butted his muzzle into his chest, allowing himself to be lifted off the ground and up onto the Dragon’s back. “You’re a great deal larger than any Griffin. I can barely get my legs around the base of your neck.”

“Of course I’m larger than those freakish half-breeds. Faster too and far more graceful, as you’ll soon see.” Wrathion had moved up to the ledge now, his talons curling around the pockmarked stone lip. For some reason looking down at the same view from Dragon-back made the balcony seem many times higher off the ground than it actually was. Probably because he knew said Dragon would soon no longer be on the balcony and that, considering this was Wrathion, it wouldn’t simply settle for a normal take off. “You’ve experience in the air?”

“From a young age.” He said, gripping the small spine in front of him with his hands and the juncture of Wrathion’s neck with his thighs as if his life depended on it. Which it very well might in another few minutes. “Why?”

“Because,” Wrathion’s wings spread to either side of him with the snap of sail cloth, “we’re going to have a bit of fun.”

With an echoing roar Wrathion leapt from the ledge with a great sweep of wings and scale and heavy tail. Legs tucked in close to his body and rocks rushing passed with great whooshing sounds as he fell. Anduin clinging to him for dear life, heart and stomach crammed into his throat and a scream of surprise on his lips which morphed halfway into a joyful whoop as the Dragon’s wings unfurled. Sending them forwards at an incredible speed, the land flying by below in a blur of grey and red.

Banking left around the foot of the mountain and over a plunging cliff. Across a field of ash and into a serpentine canyon full of whipping turns.

“Lean, Anduin!” Adjusting his grip again on the spine he leaned to the left as Wrathion whizzed around another corner, sending them into a wild spin which almost threw him off. “Not that much!”

“Sorry!” But his voice was torn away by the wind.

Shooting out of the other end of the canyon like a bullet from a blunderbuss Wrathion spread his wings to their full span and climbed higher. The change of direction ripped the torn coat from his grasp and flung it away into the red haze. Small loss, ultimately, as there’d been little hope of repairing it. Not to mention that wearing Stormwind colors would soon be inaccurate of his allegiance. Anduin watched it flutter away until it disappeared from sight entirely.

“Alright back there? Too fast for you?”

“Is this all you have Wrathion?” Anduin doubted his exact words had been heard, but Wrathion had plainly caught his meaning and spat a twenty foot plume of flame. Engulfing them briefly in smoke and sparks.

“Careful what you wish for, my dear King.” With a last powerful down stroke Wrathion folded his wings in tight against his body like a diving falcon and turned his massive head to smirk at him. “Hold on Anduin!”

After a split second of weightlessness which seemed to last forever they plummeted from the sky. Anduin had never felt anything close to that sensation before. His grip almost giving way as his legs came up from his tenuous perch. His body thrown flat against the plates on Wrathion’s back; pressed hard against the Dragon’s spine by the inertia as his wings reopened and he leveled out. Close enough to the ground that he could see the texture of the land and the red pelted Emberworgs wandering the wastes in massive packs and-.

A gun shot cracked and Wrathion let out a roar of fury, a bullet whizzing so close by his head that Anduin almost toppled from his back. “What was that?”

“Alliance scout!” He snarled, banking sharply back towards Blackrock Mountain. “We’re going back for Zeryxia, we can’t stay here anymore! The cavalry can’t be far behind!”

They were leaving. Leaving for the ‘Sleeping City’, travel to which would take only hours. He had hours to somehow come to terms with a decision which would change him down to the most fundamental aspects of his Humanity. “Hours.”

“I’m sorry, Anduin, but I can’t let them have you back.” Soaring over the balcony’s railing, Wrathion landed with a hasty and decidedly ungraceful thump.

“Have fun?” Zeryxia drawled, arms crossed over her chest where she stood beside the stone throne.

“There’s no time for your nettling.” Wrathion snapped, baring his teeth. “Get your pets. We’re leaving.”

 

* * *

 

 

‘Burning Steppes’ was an incredibly accurate name: even the sky which stretched above them looked as if someone had lit it on fire, leaving everything below it which wasn’t already grey and black cast in shades of red and orange. And then there was the matter of the heat and the fumes. The Griffins weren’t faring particularly well especially after having been pushed to the degree they had been and more than a few had begun to display signs of distress. But any pity she might otherwise have felt for the creatures was overridden by the urgency of their mission and the constant thought that they might be too late which crashed against the back of her mind like a roaring tide. And what would they do if it turned out that their judgement had been wrong and Wrathion hadn’t stopped at Blackrock Mountain, or worse, hadn’t truly gone North at all. What if they’d wasted precious time and lost their only chance to save Anduin?

Grey ash. Black dead trees. A crumple of blue. Orange-wait, blue! Without warning and much to the alarm of the SI: 7 team behind her Tess forced her mount into a steep dive. Landing hard against the ground and rushing towards the strange object, her feet sinking into the charcoaled soil with the soft crunch of fresh-fallen snow. Blue with gold edging and now clearly identifiable as what it was: Anduin’s overcoat, its tail in ragged tatters which fluttered madly in the wind when she picked it up.

“Princess Greymane-!”

“He’s here!” She flung the cloak at the operative nearest her and almost bowled him over as she rushed back towards her Griffin. “Forget meeting up with the scout Shaw sent ahead for a report, the King was taken here. That coat is proof! We go straight to Blackrock Mountain!”

“But-.”

“We’ve wasted enough time!” Anduin wasn’t helpless but that didn’t change anything. Varian hadn’t been helpless. Tirion Fordring hadn’t been helpless. Nor had the Warchief of the Horde. And yet now all three of them were dead. At the hands of the Legion rather than the Hammer, that was true, but she wasn’t about to put the ability to kill passed the zealots.

Even beleaguered as he was Shadowcrest valiantly climbed back into the sky, resuming his flight towards Blackrock’s hulking form. The rustling of feathers which soon fell in behind her made it clear that, despite their misgivings at the break in procedure, the SI: 7 team had followed.

With the den of the enemy in sight Tess checked her blades a final time: sharp and poisoned and within easy reach for spontaneous use. What were they most likely facing: at least one massive Dragon, an unknown number of crazy apocalypse worshipers and potentially some N’raqi. The SI: 7 who she’d been put at the head of were the best of the best not yet sent ahead to the Broken Isles, no time having been had to wait for them to return from the field, and she herself had learned a great deal since her people had been forced to flee their lands. With the Light’s they’d be able to pull this off.

She wasn’t certain what to expect when they first arrived-a hail of arrows and Twilight magic; a swarm of Cultists waiting for them to come within range; a Dragon to come flying at them in a spew of fire-but what met them was an empty balcony inhabited by small puffs of ash blown about by the wind.  Their Griffins landed heavily in a row and they dismounted, on high alert and scanning the area for anything which might be lying in wait.

The black maw of a doorway led deeper into the former lair of Nefarian. The uneven tiles beneath their feet were deeply scoured in several places by raking talons. The bisected body of a Venomtip Scorpid lay discarded at the foot of the throne, and across its winged granite back had been scrawled a taunting message.

_‘Your precious King shall rule forever in the halls of Ny’alotha.’_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun had fallen below the horizon and the moon had risen full, climbing into the black sky like the night’s opening eye. Its pale silver rays flashed off the waves below and played along Wrathion’s scales, revealing hidden tones of red and gold. The only other source of light came from the pale purple aura which hung around Zeryxia like a cloud of miasma. The sighing of the ocean and the occasional flap of the Dragons’ wings were the only sounds that Anduin had heard for a very long time and by this point he’d abandoned his perch behind Wrathion’s neck in favor of stretching out across the Dragon’s armored back. His arms dangling freely in the ocean spray which had long since soaked into his gloves. The smooth black scales were warm where they pressed against his cheek. Exhaustion had settled over him in a thick heavy blanket to the point where he could no longer bring himself to truly care how much longer it would take to reach their destination. How much longer he’d have before he had to fight for the right to continue to exist and inhabit his own body against a shard of the Void itself. At least once all of it was over, outcome regardless, he could rest.

“Anduin!” He was roused from his state of half-sleep by the sound of Wrathion’s voice and raised his head. Red eyes glowed like embers in the darkness of the night. “We’re almost at the entry and the ride won’t be pleasant. You need to hold on.”

Arms having gone mostly numb after being left so long in one position and forced to work with spray-soaked scales Anduin had more trouble pushing himself upright than he’d have liked. Blinking rapidly to focus his eyes once he’d finally managed it he did his best to squint through the darkness for any signs of what they were approaching but it all just looked like more ocean to him.

“Just ahead. Below us.” A small island materialized out of the gloom and roaring waves, entirely barren and barely above sea level. Set into the middle, pulsing violet and jagged as a fanged maw, was a serrated tear in the fabric of reality. “Sit tight, my dear King. It’s going to be a rough ride into the Sleeping City.”


	3. City of Slumber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Icey/ elbrethali for the fanart.

‘A rough ride’ it was indeed. If anything that description was, in Anduin’s opinion, a rather charitable one for the forces they experienced while pushing their way through the gash in reality. Spirals of light like the curving arms of galaxies flashed passed at speeds faster than anything he’d ever seen, streaking the void through with spindles of sparkling silver. Wrathion’s muscles were tensed beneath him like reams of iron cable. Their passage shook them as violently as a child’s toy in a War Worg’s mouth. He couldn’t breathe. His head had been locked in a Gnomish vice. It felt as if the very fibers of his being were being torn apart and remade over and over again.

And then it was all over. The shaking had stopped. A gasp of cold damp air filled his lungs. The churning in his gut stopped. Slowly, in no small degree frightened by the prospect of what he might see, Anduin opened his eyes.

It were as if they’d traveled to the very center of the world. A massive stone ceiling arched above them, the only part of it truly visible the occasional jut of the fang-like stalactites which loomed from the surrounding dark like static giants. Below stretched the baleful architecture of the Sleeping City. The twisted forms of thorned black buildings squatted like waiting predators alongside the flanks of endlessly twisted streets populated by spasming shadows. The tallest buildings were a pair of towers which gleamed wetly, weeping blood or ichor from the porous surfaces of the floating crystals chained to their crowns. But they were not the tallest thing in the city. That honor belonged to the spiked shield of an armored mantle, the rest of the creature’s form concealed beneath the ground. With a sickening swooping feeling Anduin realized that he was looking at all that was visible of the body of an Old God.

_That thing has to be the size of Kalimdor!_ For the first time and with enough force to make him feel feint just how slim a chance he stood truly set in. _Light help me._

But there was no Light in this place. He could clearly feel as much in the very air around him, heavy with the piercing darkness which burrowed with unrelenting insistence into his very core. Cold tendrils which tore his ribs apart to infest his heart and tug at his soul. Everything here belonged to the Void and had since the beginning of time immemorial. Since even before that. Had never known warmth or kindness or mercy. Anduin had never been so incredible afraid.

“Glorious, isn’t it?” Zeryxia cackled, soaring over Wrathion’s larger form to bring herself closer to where he’d coiled down atop the Black Dragon’s back. Wrathion snarled at her but the warning had little effect. “N’zoth was the greatest of the Shath’yar and ruled a fourth of this pitiful world before the interference by the Pantheon. With your form he’ll rule again. This time _all of Azeroth_ will be his. The Legion shall be rebuffed, all that Titan hands have built shall be undone, ruin shall lay beneath your heel and the Black Empire shall reign eternal. But you’ll not need to worry for it being on your conscious: everything of you will have been unmade long before then.”

Wrathion’s teeth snapped dangerously close to one of the Twilight Drake’s wings. Shrieking in anger and surprise she fell back far enough to be out of range of the other Dragon’s teeth and tail. “Don’t listen to her.” He snarled. “Everything is going to be alright. You must believe that.”

“How can I believe that?” Dying. Dying Light. He felt sick to his very soul. Below them a C’thraxx shrieked, the awful sound shattering the air. “Look at where we are.”

“Remember what you told me about the essential source of a Light wielder’s strength: Faith.” Wrathion ignored the insults being spit at him by the tailing Drake. “You’re strong enough for this. Stronger than it is. You must have faith in that.”

“I don’t. How can I? That thing drove your father mad and he was an Aspect! I’m nothing but a Human King, and a poor one at that!”

A poor King wouldn’t care so deeply for his people. “Then at least have faith in the fact that _I_ believe you to be strong enough!” This was the same man who, as a small child, had held the throne in his father’s absence and survived being kidnapped by Onyxia. The same man who, as a scrawny fifteen year old, had thought nothing of running off alone to face a mountain of a blood-crazed Orc. Now was not the time for him to be experiencing self-doubt! “Can you do that?”

“If that’s really true I’m certain you lose very bet you make.”

**_“Anduin!”_ **

The Human on his back sighed and shifted in his perch. “Yes, Wrathion, I can do that. Even if I don’t believe you’re right I can have faith in your belief that I’m strong enough.”

His tone didn’t make that assertion sound anything close to convincing but Wrathion supposed it was better than nothing. There wasn’t much more that he could do for Anduin anyway. They were approaching the landing point, the ring of torchlight visible even before they began to descend.

Wrathion landed as lightly as he could so as to avoid jostling Anduin as much as possible. Anduin was too busy treating the ring of hooded cultists holding torches to dubious eyes to really notice. With marked reluctance he slid down off the Dragon’s back, grabbing one of the spines on his shoulders to keep himself from falling when his legs almost gave out from lack of use. Swinging his horned head around, Wrathion gently nudged his muzzle against the young King’s chest.

“You’re alright?”

“Fine.” His voice was heavy. He wrapped his arms around Wrathion’s snout and allowed the Dragon to hold him up. “Goodbye, Wrathion.”

Most people hanging off a snarling Wyrm would have at least had the decency to jump but Anduin didn’t even flinch. “No. Don’t even start with that. You’re not going to leave me. That _thing_ is not going to win.”

His smile was edged and didn’t reach his eyes, nothing like the earnest smiles Anduin had come to be synonymous for in the Black Dragon’s mind. “Of course.” He said, releasing his hold and stepping away. “I’ll see you later.”

Wrathion felt the urge to pull Anduin back swell within him. A chattering horde of terrible doubts roaring up inside him as his consort was swarmed by the waiting Cultists. Eager hands laid on him as they began tugging him away. What if N’zoth won? What if this was the last time they spoke? What if the next time he saw Anduin he’d be nothing but a shell: an Old God with only destruction in mind staring out from behind the mask his handsome face had been reduced to.

_This is a bad idea._ The thought exploded across his awareness with all the sound and fury of an erupting volcano. _I need to take him back to Stormwind!_

But it was already too late. The last glint of his golden hair had long since vanished into the twisting streets. There was no longer anything he could do.

_He never answered._ Anduin had sat close enough to him on that cot back at Blackrock Mountain to press their shoulders together like he’d used to back in the Tavern of the Mists, close enough that the soft heat from his arm radiated against Wrathion’s own already hot skin. Had offered what comfort he could by taking Wrathion’s hand when his words had further driven home the reality of the situation they were facing. Had cried on him in Stormwind, the clutch of his grip more possessive than angry. _He never told me if he’d forgiven me or not._  And that had been his Consort’s desired result: knowing Wrathion as well as Wrathion knew him, Anduin was well aware of how he valued knowledge. How important it was for him to know. And now he’d been left to squirm on the precipice of possibly never having an answer. The gentle cruelty only known to someone as kind as Stormwind’s King. _Punishment enough indeed._

“They’ll be finished preparing him within the hour.” Zeryxia’s blue violet eyes glowed in the gloom as she took a challenging step towards him, every scale on her body radiating a sickly sense of triumph. “You’ll be present at the Towers of Sacrifice when he dies, won’t you? I’m sure your Consort will want the small comfort of your presence in his final moments.”

Wrathion’s claws whizzed through the air but Zeryxia, smaller and lighter than him, dodged out of the way with ease. The pillar the blow collided with snapped in half, its upper portion falling with a crash and breaking apart into ragged chunks. Her pointed laughter echoed around him as she melted away and out of sight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ny’alotha was even more terrible from the ground than it had been from the air: Anduin didn’t think he’d ever in all his life seen a more thoroughly unnatural place. The Twilight’s Hammer members seemed entirely phased by their surroundings and strolled onwards as casually as the citizens of Stormwind did down the city’s lit and guarded streets. For once he found himself actually feeling grateful for their presence: they’d formed into ranks around him which was likely aimed more towards preventing any efforts he might make at escaping on foot than protecting him from whatever eldritch terrors might be lurking in the impenetrable black but it still ultimately had that effect. The torches they held crackled and snapped and were the only source of sound beyond their footsteps, the circle of light they threw all, it seemed, that kept the shadows from consuming them.

The entire matter felt ritualistic. A much darker, twisted version of the ceremonies conducted by the Church of the Holy Light. With a horrible start Anduin realized that that was because that was exactly what it was. The prelude of an evil rite. A willing-if barely-sacrifice being transported to the Light only knew where for final preparation, whatever that would amount to.

What were they going to do to him? It could be any number of potentially cruel and unnecessary things. It could also be ultimately harmless, at least in comparison to what was to follow. They walked for what seemed like an eternity down those ever bending streets. Anduin’s thoughts spun in worthless circles, skittering about like misfired fireworks each leading to worse and worse places until he finally couldn’t take it anymore and forced his mind to go blank. Spending the rest of their travel with his head bent forward and his hands clasped in front of him.

He could smell the water long before he could see it. Marched up the steps of a glaring building Anduin found himself standing on the tiled lip of a pool of water. He was barely given enough time to realize that the building he’d been taken into was some form of bath house before his escorts closed in. Rough hands descending on him and grabbing at his clothes. Not about to allow himself to be further manhandled or, Light forbid, undressed Anduin flailed. Delivering a quite forceful push to the nearest of them, a Night Elf, and sending them stumbling back into a few others. There was no retaliation and the hands withdrew. He set to removing his clothes by his own power before the retreat could be thought better of, forcing all acknowledgement of the reality that a parliament of Cultists were watching him undress with disturbingly rapt attention.

Thankfully that didn’t last long and, after he’d removed his gloves and the outer layers of his shirt they began to file back out onto the steps, leaving him at least some small sliver of dignity. From the look of things he was expected to wash himself before whatever was going to happen took place.

After hours spent in the heat and grime of the Burning Steppes and a liberal coating of salt water Anduin supposed he could do with a bath anyway.

The water was freezing but it was clean and that, at least, was something. If only to draw things out a little longer he took the time to wash every inch of himself three times over. It was only after he’d turned back to where he’d left his clothing and discovered it had disappeared that the horrifying thought that he might be made to march back through the city starkers occurred to him.

As if summoned by that thought one of the Cultists reentered the building with a pile of clothing in her arms which she placed at the top of the stairs leading down into the water before prostrating herself, leaving him barely enough space to stand on dry ground without stepping on her. Letting out his breath in a huff but resigned to entertaining the Cult’s frankly bizarre and erratic behavior if he ever wanted out of the pool Anduin emerged and redressed.

Fine fabric the like of which he’d never seen before; cool and smooth to the touch it looked as if it had been woven from shadow and shined with the same tones as Zeryxia’s scales. A heavy medallion in the shape of the Hammer’s symbol which hung on a thick chain. The cultist kissed his feet and then the charm at the hollow of his throat before stepping out of his path and allowing him to exit the building.

The circle around him was reformed and they set out back in the direction they’d come, towards the looming towers and the Old God behind them. Seconds seemed to become hours at the same time that minutes became seconds. His heart hammered in his chest, rattling against his ribs with a speed which increased with every step he took as if desperate to make its presence known. Would it even still beat when this was over? Would it need to?

The buildings fell away and the streets opened into a massive courtyard which stretched to the base of the bleeding towers. Every inch of it but for the narrow corridor they passed through was packed with spectators: Hooded figures of all races stood clustered, shoulder to shoulder, and rustled like the wind as he passed; behind them, on the outer edges of the gathering, loomed the forms of N’raqi and Cthraxxi; perched on the rooftops were the glowing forms of Drakes. He was led up a last set of stairs and passed Wrathion and Zeryxia to stand between the towers. Facing the shield of the Old God’s mantle; a horrific melding of scales and spines and teeth.

Here his arms were lifted above his head, shackles attached to Elementium chains which stretched up and away towards the tops of the towers bolted around his wrist with the cold bite of tight metal. Winched upwards until he hung well off the ground, legs dangling freely in the air and stress put on his shoulders. Below him came the glow of Twilight Magic and, moments later, a column of dark tendrils erupted from the imprisoned aberration. Striking him dead center of his chest.

Flesh blood and bone caught fire, every muscle in his body clenching as one in a failed attempt to reel away. There was a hellish, keening, animal sound echoing in his ears that Anduin was aware in some detached since was coming from him as the foreign essence burrowed a hole straight through skin and muscle. Tongues of blazing ice coiling against his spine. Tears welled up, his vision blurred, and then everything went black.

His first thought was that he’d lost consciousness. That he’d lost the battle before it had even begun. That this was where he’d be left for an eternity, lost forever within the very bowels of the Void. And then a single massive glowing eye snapped open, its slitted blazing pupil focusing on him with a dreadful finality. Something moved in the darkness around him. Brushing against his back. Winding around his body. The Old God moaned in a maddening language which burned his mind like a metal brand, syllables like the shifting of continents and the crumbling of mountains.  Anduin struggled, desperate to beat the aberration back but without any concrete idea how. The chains still around his body limited his movements. Another tentacle coiled around him and pinned his arms to his sides. Bound his legs together. Thousands of feet of pure muscle against which he stood no hope of matching strength.

A sharp scaled point forced itself between his lips and passed his teeth. Slithering down his throat without thought of mercy, unbothered by the best attempts of his body to reject it. Reaching into that place deep inside him where the Light rested and beginning to sever his ties to it one by one. That warm golden spark growing more and more dim in spite his efforts to shield it.

N’zoth groaned again and though he couldn’t understand what it was saying the message was clear. Give in. End the pain.

End the pain.

Slowly, Anduin’s body relaxed. More tentacles wrapping around his form. A second slithering down his throat to join the first. Already the discomfort was beginning to wane. The Light within him flickering down to nearly nothing as his eyes slid closed.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Becoming nothing. He could feel it happening already. Threads of himself unraveling. Pulling apart.

“Anduin!” A voice. A name. His name. His name being shouted by what sounded like Wrathion’s voice. “You have to fight!” Fight? But why? What was the point when giving in was so much easier? When sinking into the darkness which filled him was so welcoming? So simple. “Think of your people! Think of the people who you love! Think of your father!”

His mother, of whom he had only the vaguest memories. Bolvar, stalwart and loyal and there for him when no one else was; who had died battling the Scourge at the Wrath Gate. Jaina, his adoptive aunt with whom he’d parted on poor terms. Broll, who had been a companion of his father’s along with Valeera during his time as a gladiator and who had saved him from certain death at Onyxia’s. Valeera, his pseudo-older sister who was ferociously protective over both his father and himself. Wrathion, whom he loved in spite of everything. His father whom he’d gotten so little time with, whom he’d loved deeply despite persistent wariness over his temper, whom Gul’dan had taken from him and whom he’d never see again if he just let himself slip into inexistence.

If Varian Wrynn, even at the very gates of hell, could destroy a Fel Reaver and countless demons before being brought down than he, Anduin Wrynn, couldn’t simply just give up.

He bit down with all the force his body could muster, teeth sinking through scaly hide and drawing a gout of foul ichor which burned his tongue and throat. N’zoth shrieked and tried to pull free, to bury itself deeper or slip away, but somehow his grip held. Teeth driving deeper, through muscle and down to bone. Strength and conviction flooding through him as he clung to these memories, to those faces, like talismans against the darkness’ encroach. He’d be the one who came out of this on top, even if it meant devouring the Old God from one end to the other.

As if in response to his decision the mangled connection to the Light within him sparked once more to life. Emitting a great golden flash brighter than an exploding star before crumbling away, whiting out his vision and leaving Anduin momentarily blind.

He became increasingly more aware of the weight of his body as physical sensation flooded back to him. Everything feeling sharper and more vibrant. The scent of water and rock and shadow in the air more pungent. The heartbeats below thudding in his ears. Links to ancient, inhuman minds hissing feedback at the far edges of his awareness, licking reverent praises along each point of contact. Anduin just wished he wasn’t dangling in the air any longer.

Something solid and scaly brushed against his feet and he quickly found purchase atop it, lifting his weight off his strained shoulders and burning wrists which he could now see, as he vision readjusted into inhuman focus, had chaffed to the point of bleeding. A dribble of red-black ichor slithering along the inside of his forearm. The metal crumpled like paper beneath his fingers, releasing him from the shackles, and the tentacle he stood on brought him safely to the ground.

“Master.” Zeryxia dropped to her knees but he paid her no mind. At the current moment he had eyes only for Wrathion who was staring at him as if simultaneously desperate to know if he was still himself and unable to bare the truth. Anduin took full advantage of his distraction to playfully yank him aloft.

“I believe,” he said around a snicker at the expression of indignant surprise which had plastered itself across the Black Prince’s face, “that I promised you an answer, my dear Dragon?”

“Anduin.” Drawn out, breathy and slightly choked; unlike him and doubtlessly something Wrathion would deny until his dying day if it was brought up later. “It _is_ you!”

“It is me.”

“You did it! You-I mean, of course you did it; I told you that things would be fine! You really ought to listen to me more often!”

“I did it.” He repeated, snorting, raising the Dragon higher until they were properly at eye level. Running thin fingers through black curls. Wrapping his hands around the base of ridged horns. “Now, I’m aware that quiet tends to be against your nature but will you stop talking for long enough for me to say my piece?”

“I’m all ears my dear,” Wrathion paused upon realizing ‘King’ was no longer a truly applicable title before settling for “Anduin.”

“Thank you.” Using his grip on the Dragon’s horns as leverage Anduin brought their lips together for the first time in too long. Even though it had been years since their last kiss and in spite of the fact that, for Wrathion at least, their position was inverted neither of them had forgotten how it felt. In an uncharacteristic show of dominance Anduin’s tongue slipped from behind now sharp teeth. Wrathion’s hands, made awkward by the angle and the fact he was dangling upside down by one ankle, found purchase at the nape of his neck and tugged him closer. As if wanting to pin him in place as long as possible. Given his newly lessened need for a constant supply of air it was ultimately on the Dragon’s account that they broke apart. “I haven’t forgiven you. Not fully. But I’m willing to move passed all of this, especially considering the greatest wounds will soon be undone.”

“I’m incredibly relieved to hear that.” Wrathion grinned back at him. “Could you release me now, my dear? Not that I don’t enjoy your…affection but perhaps here, in front of the entire Hammer, isn’t the place for it?”

“You want down?”

“Please.”

“I do recall you being the one who told me ‘be careful what you wish for’. In the future, consider taking your own advice.” Wrathion realized what Anduin intended to do a split second before the tentacle around his ankle released without preamble. He landed with an undignified thump at Anduin’s feet and was promptly offered a hand back onto his own; colder and paler than it had been but still familiar. Seeming to have reached the end of his endurance after doing so Anduin swooned, scrabbling at fistfuls of Wrathion’s tunic to keep himself upright and leaning his head on his shoulder. “You’d think that Gods wouldn’t need sleep.”

“Despite being the Lord of Slumber N’zoth’s body likely doesn’t.” Wrathion wrapped his arms around Anduin’s waist. “But this one is still mostly mortal. Damage done to it won’t kill you, but you’ll still need sleep and food and air to some capacity. Would you like me to carry you to your rooms?”

All the other could muster was an affirmative noise.

“It would be my pleasure.” Anduin had likely expected Wrathion to do so in his Dragon form because he let out a small sound of surprise when he was hoisted into his arms. But the turn of events must not have bothered him too terribly much because all he did was sling his arms around Wrathion’s shoulders and tuck his head against his neck. Smirking at Zeryxia, who’d gone something close to slack jawed, he said “I’m sure he’ll want to speak in the morning but until then he’s not to be disturbed. Make it clear that if anyone shows up without being called for first I will personally eat them.”

Without waiting for a response Wrathion descended the steps and passed through the gathered crowd. Though he was aware of the eyes of unseen things nothing attempted to stop him. Anduin hadn’t made the slightest effort to stay awake and his warm even breaths puffed against the side of his neck. Wrathion would admit to being mildly annoyed that all the effort he’d gone to to make the room as comfortable and familiar for his young Lion as possible would not be immediately appreciated but he supposed it could wait until morning. Or evening. Whenever Anduin next woke up.

 The room was massive, luxuriously adorned and located at the top of a spire of a palatial Temple complex not far from the Towers. Moving immediately over to the bed Wrathion set Anduin down and removed the unsightly medallion before draping the sheets over his chest. The blonde mumbled in his sleep and turned onto his side, burrowing closer to the mattress but didn’t otherwise react when Wrathion touched him. Running clawed fingers through fine strands of hair now more resembling of the last glint of sunlight before night fell than simple gold. Sliding the pad of his thumb along the curve of his cheek bone, over near-translucent skin, to trace the black markings which had formed beneath his eyes.

He’d never forget the horrible sight of him going limp in those chains. The scream of pain Anduin had made when the ritual had begun would haunt his darkest moments forever. But that was over now. The danger had passed and now he’d never have to worry about ever losing the one person that most mattered in his life or being forced to choose between him and Azeroth again.

Where Wrathion had little doubt that his Consort’s changed appearance would cause him some distress when it came time that showing him his reflection could no longer be avoided that, too, could wait until the morning.


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got more fan art by Icey here and it's of the cutest scene out of this chapter if not this entire fic. Their deviantart is elbrethali.

It had all been a terrible blur: their empty handed return to Stormwind with only the torn coat and the strange message, the patchwork effort to reassure the city’s populous and the distribution of the news to the other leaders of the Alliance as well as other parties close enough to the missing High King that they had at least something of a right to be there. Considering how far flung quite a few of them were and the sheer amount of things going on between the Legion and the Horde and associated troubles on the Broken Isles it was nothing short of incredible that the throne room had been filled in just under eight hours.

Velen stood stoic and at least half a head above everyone else in the room, white eyes inscrutable and glowing staff in hand. Tyrande and Malfurion stood together near one of the windows, torn between the matter at hand and what they’d left behind in Val’shara. Mekkatorque was underfoot, nervously prattling on about some invention or another to Muradin and Falstad while Moira shot him the occasional pointed look. Aysa looked on in concern, much like Tess herself was, as her father directed a burning wolfish glare at Valeera; looking quite a bit out of place as the only member of a Horde race in the room the rogue, to her credit, made a valiant point of not returning the glare despite how much Tess knew being judged on merit of such things must bother her. She did her best to distance herself from the matter by making clipped small talk with Khadgar and another antlered Night Elf whom Tess vaguely recalled being mentioned by Mathias as a member of the Cenarion Circle.

Quite a motley group indeed, though she couldn’t help but notice one face was notably absent from proceedings. Didn’t appear to have any intention of showing up if she’d even read the letter at all. Either way it had come to be passed the point where they could afford to wait any longer.

“You said that Anduin’s been taken,” it was her father who snapped under the silence first, no doubt driven by the eagerness of the wolf inside him to return to the hunt. “You’re certain that it was Wrathion? Certain it was the Twilight’s Hammer?”

“We have no definitive proof that it was the Twilight’s Hammer, as the larger responsible party-and the High King along with them-had disappeared by the time SI: 7 got there.” Shaw said grimly from where he stood to the left of the empty Lion seat. “But the circumstance of matters speaks volumes in this case as we know from our experience with the Twilight Dragonflight that the Hammer has some arcane process of rapidly aging Dragons to their full maturity and we do have at least some proof that it was indeed Wrathion responsible for carrying off the King. A whelp, which is what he’d be naturally, would not be capable of that.”

“The royal guard claim that it was a Black Wyrm that took him, father. And the scout Master Shaw sent ahead of the retrieval team reported similarly: a fast flying Black Wyrm which appeared to have a rider, though it was too high and went by too fast for him to tell who or what they were.” Tess said, stepping forward with the coat. “We found this on our way in, dropped not far from a pool of lava.”

“It’s definitely Anduin’s.” Genn turned it over in his hands, examining the badly torn and soot-stained fabric. “There’s no blood on it. At least that’s something.”

“Aye, there wouldn’t be blood if he took a bath in lava would there?” Falstad jumped when the Dark Iron beside him delivered a heavy thump to his arm, “Oi, Moira, don’t ya be hittin me. I know ya were friends wit tha High King but it’s true. Incineration doesn’t leave much time for bleeding.”

“Let us assume, since the coat is not burned, that King Wrynn didn’t ‘take a bath in lava’.” Aysa suggested delicately, having caught the dagger glare Valeera was now sending the dwarf. Tess wouldn’t be terribly surprised if the next person who suggested Anduin could be dead, no matter how likely that might or might not have been, would soon find themselves wishing they were too. “I’m sure that the message the team mentioned would have said something about that. And its best we not give up without proof; we risk abandoning him if we do.”

“Yes, the message,” Khadgar said, leaning partly on his staff and somehow managing to look both relaxed and prepared to prevent the rogue beside him from leaping at anyone. The Druid was watching Valeera closely as well. “What was it?”

All eyes in the room turned to Tess at that point. “’Your precious King shall rule forever in the halls of Ny’alotha’. They wrote it on the back of Nefarian’s throne.”

“Ny’alotha?”

“You’ve heard of it, Malfurion?” her father growled.

The Night Elf shook his head, eyes slightly unfocused and purple face pale. “Surely it can’t be.”

“I’m afraid it can.” Starting in alarm, more than a few of them reaching for their weapons on reflex, all present whirled around to face the newcomer who’d arrived without announcement. Relaxing just as quickly when they realized who it was.

“Spellweaver.” Khadgar was the first to recover enough to speak.

Kalecgos inclined his head, sapphire hair falling forwards into his face. “I’m a bit late and for that I apologize. I tried to convince Jaina to come but she’s too deep in her own anger now to process much else; knowing how much her ‘nephew’ means to her I came in her stead. She wouldn’t want Anduin to suffer this: what I and the other Aspects feared might happen. Though there may no longer be anything which can be done for him.”

“What do you mean there might be nothing we can do!” Valeera’s hand shot for one of her daggers but the Night Elf grabbed her arm. “Let go of me, Broll!”

“Losing your temper won’t help anything: what do you think Anduin would tell you if he was here? Calm down.” He looked over at the Blue Dragon. “What is Ny’alotha?”

“One of the cities making up the Black Empire over which the Old Gods ruled before the Pantheon’s arrival. It was N’zoth’s seat of power and after it was sunk beneath the ocean’s darkest depths it became his prison.” Kalecgos said. “He was the smallest of the Old Gods and ruled the smallest portion of the land but in many ways he was also the most dangerous. What he lacked physically compared the C’thun and Yogg’saron the Lord of Slumber made up for in insidious cunning and skillful manipulation. He’s been too quiet. We should have seen it sooner.”

“Seen what sooner?” Velen’s tail twitched in a subtle echo of the agitation they all felt. “And what does any of this have to do with the kidnapping of my student?”

“The Old Gods crave only one thing: chaos. Loyalty isn’t something they understand. But N’zoth would be the only one of the remaining three to think of betraying the pact they made upon their imprisonment if it meant that he alone would rule everything. That he alone would be free. Yogg’saron and C’thun committed the whole of their forces to the Hour of Twilight. N’zoth provided his foremost lieutenant and nothing else; empowered Deathwing enough to force us to deplete our Titan-granted powers but not enough for him to win.” Cyan eyes fell on the empty Lion Seat. “He intended for Deathwing to fail. Intended for their plans to fall through. Because he had plans of his own. And the message left behind at Blackrock Mountain provides disturbing insight into what those plans might have been.”

“You believe that’s why he was taken?” Khadgar did an admirable job of keeping his voice calm despite the uproar in the room. “To be used as some sort of vessel?”

“It’s one of many possibilities, though there is some hope.” Kalecgos said. “Dependent on the degree of transfer, whether it was total or partial, it’s possible something could be done.”

“And how likely is that?” Mathias demanded gruffly.

“There’s no way to say for certain. It hinges on too many factors, among them how quickly you can get to him which depends on when he reappears. And given N’zoth’s preference of operating in the shadows that may never happen.” The Dragon said. “Where it’s likely his focus will be almost entirely on the Legion’s presence at this point you cannot afford to ignore the threat he poses until they’re gone. Just be prepared. Death, if he still can die, may now be the best that you can do for him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The associated drop in temperature which had come with his transformation had apparently made Wrathion’s tendency to run hot incredibly attractive to Anduin. His Consort, at some point during the night, had attached himself to the Dragon through the means of both his arms and his legs along with a few stray tentacles which had managed to find their way into the room through the curtained window and now clutched at his clothes and the sheets of the bed like the hands of a comfort seeking child.

Combining ‘Shath’yar’ and ‘cute’ into the description of the same thing had to be a historic moment. Leave it to Anduin to not only manage it in his sleep, but sleep through it. His hair, still slightly damp when he’d passed out, was now spread across his cheeks and the pillow in a tangled halo. Dislodging the loose grasp of the scaled limbs clinging to his sleeve Wrathion reached out to push the golden hair back and was met with the tired gaze of a cracked open eye. Pale pink clung desperately to the pupil in a thin band, surrounded by familiar Wrynn blue which steadily darkened into nightshade where the whites had once been.

“Sorry.” It was impossible to tell time in Ny’alotha, absent of both sun and moon, but to him it felt like morning and that feeling came with slight reluctance to completely break the silence. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“’S fine.” Pointed teeth were displayed in a wide yawn. The sheets rustled softly as Anduin released him and stretched, joints popping, through the grip of the tentacles persisted. “Should probably be waking up soon anyway.” Blinking sleep out of his eyes he caught sight of Wrathion’s predicament and immediately released him. “Sorry; I didn’t notice.”

“I’m sure it will take some time before you’re fully aware of where all of your now nearly infinite number of limbs are and what they’re doing.” There was just enough suggestion in the Dragon’s tone to make Anduin’s cheeks flush, the color now closer to indigo than red. “It was an interesting sight to wake up to. I don’t recall you ever being this clingy in Pandaria, though I suppose they do say absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“If it really bothers you the floor is free.”

“Why would a sign that my Consort enjoys my presence bother me?”

“You’re such a smooth talking bastard, Wrathion.” Anduin groaned from between his fingers: Wrathion’s first assumption was that he was attempting to conceal a darkening blush, either from embarrassment or on account of the uncommon event that he swore, but quickly realized it was actually because Anduin was feeling his own face.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out how bad it is.” Equally muffled. “I know I must look different. I feel different. You don’t just absorb an ancient evil and keep looking like you used to.”

“Stop that.” It was difficult to pry the smaller male’s hands away now that his strength had significantly increased but Wrathion managed it. “You still look mostly human.”

“’Mostly human’? Really? I’m _so_ relieved.” In the Dragon’s opinion the sarcasm was a bit uncalled for. “’Mostly human’ could mean a lot of things. My nails turned black. Hell’s bells, my _blood_ turned black!”

“The proper term is ichor, not blood.” The look Anduin sent him made it clear the interjection wasn’t helpful. “I knew you’d probably want to look so I brought a hand mirror in here some weeks ago. Would you like it now or would you rather finish what you were doing earlier?”

“Putting it off will only make it worse.” Anduin said. “I’ll take the mirror now.”

“Just a moment.” Wrathion reached over to the bedside table and picked up the hand mirror that had been sitting there. A pretty thing. Kal’dorei make, most likely, with a spindly stem of pearl inset with sapphires. “Here you are.”

Anduin’s fingers curled around the handle, as delicate and pale as if they’d been carved from the same material. He didn’t immediately raise it, staring at the image of Malorne which had been carved into the back. Wrathion set a hand on his shoulder, the thin fabric of the robe from the night before crumpling further beneath the weight of his fingers.

“It’s not as bad as you think.” He said. “The resemblance to N’zoth is negligible at best.”

If Anduin even registered the attempt at humor he showed no sign of it. Taking a steady breath, he turned the mirror over.

When his skin went from white to nearly clear Wrathion knew his Consort wasn’t taking things well. The eyes seemed to be the biggest catch point for him, evidenced by the transfixed stare and the shaking hand pawing at the markings which edged the curve of the socket.

“Light,” his voice trembled, “I look…”

“Ethereal? Fetching? Distinguished?”

“Ghastly!”

“My dear, you’re overreacting.”

“I have a mouth full of broken glass!” Anduin shot back, more horrified than heated. “I was so worried about whether or not I’d continue to exist as I was after all of this was over that I never stopped to consider the fact that I’d come out the other end looking like a _monster_!”

Wrathion’s growl made him jump and look around with his strange eyes wide. Plucking the mirror out of his hands the Dragon dropped it back onto the table with a thump. “No. You don’t get to say untrue things. I don’t know what happened to you, Anduin-if it was my leaving or your father’s death or something else that did it-but this isn’t like you.” Snatching both of Anduin’s hands before the blonde could move them away he kissed each of his black nails. The onyx veins running along the inside of his wrists. His blue-tinted lips. The markings below his eyes. His forehead. “You’re beautiful. Striking. Wondrous to look at. If I ever catch you thinking differently I’ll be forced to convince you otherwise, my dear.”

“Forced to convince me otherwise?” the repetition was partly playful, a stubborn smile tugging at his lips despite valiant efforts to keep it at bay. “How do you intend to do that?”

“Would you really like to know?” Wrathion purred, slithering atop the smaller male and forcing him back against the sheets as he did so.

“It sounds like an interesting topic.”

“I’d make a point of showing you precisely how I feel about the matter of your appearance. Of you in general.” He said. “By any means necessary.” Wrathion’s hands slid up his clothed chest. Plucking at the thin neckline. “The more important question, my dear, is whether or not I _need_ to convince you.”

The humming sound Anduin made as he wrapped his arms around Wrathion’s shoulders held a chittering undertone which was wholly inhuman. “Yes. I think you do.” He said. “Just be aware that you’re endeavoring upon _a lot_ of convincing my dear Dragon. Are you prepared to undertake that?”

“For you,” Wrathion ran possessive hands through Anduin’s tangled hair, “anything.”

He melded their lips together in a softer, slower kiss than the one they’d shared in front of the Twilight’s Hammer the night before. Languid, unhurried and familiar. A simple retreading of well-known ground. Wrathion tasted like ash and spices. Anduin’s tongue held a new, acidic burn. Black nails scraped lightly along his scalp as he caught a gentle, firm grip in Wrathion’s curls.

The Dragon moved his lips to the corner of his mouth. Trailing kisses along his smooth jawline and pale neck. Laving at the pulse point, where he knew the blonde was sensitive, and lightly biting down. Anduin let out a huff of breath and tugged on his hair. Shuddering at the Dragon’s tongue continued to run over the dominant vein along the side of his throat. Clawed hands pushing the neck of the robe down to reveal more skin.

Wrathion let a liberal spattering of marks along Anduin’s collarbone and pushed the robe down further until the full pane of his chest was revealed. Sitting back in his perch atop his Consort’s waist to examine him. Tracing fingertips along the paths once carved by now vanished scars. Splaying his palm over Anduin’s heart and feeling its steady rhythm, not quite as swift as it had been when Wrathion had last done the same.

Anduin had been barely sixteen that night. His eyes glazed and purely blue rather than the sharp eventide they were now. Wrathion allowed himself a sentimental moment to appreciate the fact he’d ever managed to find himself in such a position again before returning his attention to matters at hand. Running the sharp tips of his nails along the dip and swell of muscle. Watching his Consort arch and purr.

As much as Anduin had likely spent years thinking that night between them on Violet Rise, stolen from beneath his father’s very nose, meant nothing to him Wrathion still remembered every detail. The way he’d looked. The sounds he’d made. Exactly how to move and where to touch to spur him into making those sounds. Wrathion made full use of that knowledge in playfully tormenting him, selectively placing another few marks and rehashing the lines he’d traced with his fingers with his tongue. That blue-toned blush had crept down along his chest now, pupils dilated to the point where his eyes were solely black. Anduin made an effort to fumble with the Dragon’s clothes only to have his wrists caught and pinned above his head; he’d expected some display of mild frustration but all Anduin did was smirk. A gentle tug on his sash from behind alerted Wrathion to the continued presence of the little blonde’s other limbs.

It would take a while for him to properly anchor the reality that truly restraining his Consort would now take more effort than was honestly reasonable.

“Too many clothes!” The tentacle which had a hold of his sash gave another, more insistent tug and successfully convinced the Dragon it would be in the best interests of his regalia to divest himself of his clothing before it was ruined. For good measure, he took care of the remainder of Anduin’s as well. Running a light touch along the wing of his once fragile hip.

“How is your leg?” even being careful of it last time the injury had still pained him.

“My leg?” Anduin’s smile was studded with hooked barbs. “It’s never been better. I don’t even have a limp anymore. You don’t have to worry about it. If I recall, we’re missing something?”

“Missing something? No. Not at all.” Reaching for the same table the mirror had been resting on Wrathion removed a small vial from the depths of a drawer and showed it to him. “I prepare for all contingencies, my dear.”

“You,” the blonde informed him as the cork came free with a small pop, managing to sound both exasperated and highly flustered, “are incorrigible.”

“I’ll admit to that.” Hooking Anduin’s once lamed leg around his waist, Wrathion probed lightly at the entrance he found there with slick fingers. “So long as you admit to enjoying it.”

“Presumptuous of you.” The other hissed as the first slipped inside. “What makes you think that?”

“A few things.” Anduin had always found himself rather envious of the Black Prince’s ability to keep himself outwardly calm even in the most absurd situations. A second finger slipped inside and began to process of spreading him apart. “For one thing, your admonishments of my bad behavior in most cases are far from convincing. For another,” a third finger, with some difficulty, joined the first two, “I’d say you benefit from the matter as much as I do, wouldn’t you agree?” Anduin’s reply was cut off into a low moan as Wrathion settled himself between his legs. “My dear, you’re quite tight. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were a virgin.”

“Not funny.” The blonde grumbled as Wrathion resumed nibbling on his neck. “I was a royal. I couldn’t just go running off to such a place as Gallywix’s pleasure palace: Father would have had kittens and don’t even get me started on the nobles-!”

The Black Prince covered his mouth with one hand, effectively silencing him. “I know.” He said. “But that’s over now. You’re not a royal, you’re a God, and no one tells Gods no. They do whatever they please.”

“Within reason, I hope.”

“And it’s perfectly within reason for us to just focus on this for now.”

If the smaller male had had a retort to that it was derailed when Wrathion rolled his hips forward. He wrapped his other leg around the Dragon’s waist to pull him closer. Blunt nails scratching shallow furrows down his back. Sharp teeth driving viciously into his shoulder and tongue lapping away the blood that welled there, the action more automatic than conscious as he stifled mewls against his too-hot skin. Cold scale a shocking contrast as his other limbs clutched at his arms and chest. Loosening but not releasing once they’d finished and collapsed into a barely discernable heap atop the rumpled sheets.

“I think my case was convincing.” Wrathion said once their breathing had calmed and the slick of sweat across their skin had cooled. Anduin appeared to be hanging once more off the edge of sleep. “Would you agree?”

“It will take some getting used to,” was the mumbled reply, “but if my dear Dragon can see beauty in the ruin than I suppose I can find it too if I look hard enough.” A pause. “I need to get out of this bed right now or I’ll sleep clear through the end of the world.”

“Befitting as that would be of your newly acquired title, and as much trouble as I’m sure you could cause the Legion with your grip on the Nightmare alone, I suppose it’s true that you should get on with the matter of directing the Hammer before they do something stupid in a misguided bid to please you.” Wrathion said. “You’re blushing again. What’s wrong?”

“I am not going anywhere I’ll be seen covered in…in _evidence_! Hell’s bells, the Void knows what that would incite them to do; they’re already grabby enough as it is!”

That was a disturbingly valid point which the Black Prince hadn’t considered. “I’ll take you to bathe first: we’ll fly and no one will see you.” He promised. “We’ll worry about everything else once you’ve finished.”


	5. Iron Fist: Satin Glove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Icey/elbrethali for the fan art

“Mind you, I’m well aware that this is the lowest matter on the totem pole of ‘current issues’ at the moment but hopefully I can get a hold of more workable clothes in the near future.” Anduin tugged at the gaping mouth of the sleeve as it hung off his arm. “I’m not going to say anything about the color, though I’ll admit to not being particularly fond of it. I’m talking more about the fact that it’s so thin I feel like I’m not wearing anything and that sleeves like these are nothing short of detrimental.”

“You don’t really need your arms, thought at the moment you may not be as proficient with N’zoth’s limbs as you will be in the future. Regardless you’re a spell caster.” Wrathion said. “Getting tangled up would still present a problem I suppose but you don’t need quite the range of movement a melee fighter would. You’re not one.”

“Not a good one, but I can still do damage with a staff or a blade. Especially now that I’m strong enough to peel a set of solid metal shackles like an orange.” Anduin said. “I was trained to be a warrior for the better part of the first decade of my life Wrathion. And for a number of years after that my father made a handful of attempts to keep me on that path.”

“I thought you were a pacifist.” Wrathion’s slight emphasis on the past tense was mostly meant as a joke, but the dead pan expression Anduin sent him pulled the Dragon up short. “Has that changed?”

“The Legion don’t belong here and their presence won’t be tolerated.”

“And what about the forces which do belong here? The Horde? The Alliance?”

Running his tongue over sharp teeth, the once Human sighed. “Before he died my father gave King Greymane a letter to give to me: in it he said that after countless years of suffering and hardship and battle he, this world’s greatest warrior, the Champion of Goldrinn, now believed war was not the answer. That peace was the final goal. But that sometimes to insure it you have to be willing to fight.” Anduin turned to stare out at the city, splaying his hands flat against the stone sill. His body wreathed to either side by hanging curtains of Stormwind blue. “What it didn’t contain was the primal, dark, cruel truth that all who live by blood and sword know but only the most brutal are willing to embrace. Sometimes simply fighting isn’t going far enough. Sometimes you have to be willing to crush all who would stand in your way to dust beneath your heel.”

“And you intend to do that?” the Black Dragon actually sounded concerned.

“Only if my hand is forced.” His lips twitched into a brief parody of a smile. “Blood shed is more attractive to me now than it’s ever been but I am _not_ N’zoth. I refuse to become a gore-soaked monster that lords over a shattered world demanding sacrifices.” Anduin turned back to him. “Do you remember when we talked about the Thunder King?”

“I recall your concern over my admiration of Lei Shen’s achievements.” Wrathion said. “I believe the exact title you used to refer to him was ‘tyrant’.”

“And your response to that was ‘benevolence is a luxury for the strong’. That ‘I could benefit from some of my father’s hardness’. Well, Wrathion, you’ve gotten your wish. I’m now able to see that an iron fist has its place in the tool kit of a ruler, provided it’s never used without a satin glove.” He sighed. “The Hammer, _my_ Hammer, will fall. Wherever, whenever and upon whomever is necessary. And whenever it is possible for me to lead my new people from the front lines, as my father did, I will do so. If only to honor his memory while he can’t be here.”

Wrathion joined Anduin at the window. “And once you have him back?”

“I’d say that I hope my now being incapable of death, at least in this body, would lessen his desire to wrap me in impenetrable armor and lock me in a closet for safe keeping but I know better.” He said. “I’m sure father will, at the very least, want to be right there with me on the ground.”

The Black Prince lay one of his hands over Anduin’s and intertwined their fingers. “I’m sure he will.” He’d also, probably, make at least one whole hearted effort at skinning Wrathion alive but it was likely better not to mention that. “Shall we be going to take that bath?”

Anduin looked down at the streets again and then over at Wrathion in confusion. “How are we going to do this?” he asked. “I know you said we’re flying but this room and that window are both too small for your Dragon form to fit through.”

“You’re very much right about that,” Wrathion’s tone was one of amusement as he straddled the sill, grinning. “Which is why I’m jumping out before I transform. Then you can jump out after me onto my back.”

Jump out of a window? “That’s a long way down.”

“It is.” He agreed. “But even if you miss, in the event of which I’d catch you anyway so it’s really not important, the landing wouldn’t hurt you permanently.”

But it would still hurt. Broken bones at the very least, and quite a few of them. It was too late for him to protest the plan, though, as Wrathion had already shifted forms.

“Why do I let you talk me into these things?” Anduin grumbled as he pulled himself up onto the window sill.

“Because I’m amazing and my plans are almost always full proof.”

“Your track record would disagree with that statement.” Willing himself not to look down, Anduin grabbed hold of one of Wrathion’s horns and swung himself up onto his neck. Sliding from there into his former perch. “Is this going to become a permanent thing? You being my ‘divine steed’?”

“I am _not_ a steed, nor a mount of any kind, not even to you. Having said that, as an Aspect-the last Aspect with anything close to our former power-it’s more sensical you travel with me than some Twilight _Drake_.” Wrathion huffed as he started towards the bath house. “I believe the Human term is ‘power couple’.”

Anduin couldn’t contain himself at that point and earned a red-eyed glare for his laughter. “Power couple indeed.” He said. “Enough to make the world itself tremble, if only beneath the feet of our enemies.”

“I assure you, my dear,” the Black Prince descended towards the stone stairs, “that the world will do more than tremble beneath them. It will open up to swallow them whole.”

Wrathion didn’t shift back into his smaller form until the blonde had slid down off his back, watching Anduin resume tugging at the over-long sleeves of his robe with an annoyed noise as they walked through the door. “So this is the ‘Sleeping City’, Ny’alotha. Former seat and prison of N’zoth and the current base of what are now my forces. I understand all of that. What I don’t understand is where precisely we are.”

“That’s a good question which has a couple of answers, all of which are to some degree correct.” Wrathion said. “Ny’alotha is an incredibly well preserved remnant of the Black Empire and quite a strange place.”

“I’ll say.”

“The most basic answer would be that it’s located a considerable number of miles under the sea floor at the deepest point of Azeroth’s darkest ocean. But that’s the basic answer and it’s only partly true.” He said. “It’s also at least partly located in the heart of the Emerald Nightmare. I’m not certain how that works, exactly, seeing as I’m not a Green Dragon.”

“Can it easily be reached through other means?”

“Well,” the Dragon said, “I suppose you could eventually get here by digging but unless Sargeras wants to swim down here himself with a garden trowel that would take a while. A decade at the very least. Why?”

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” Anduin made a mostly vain attempt to comb the tangles out of his hair as they drew up to the water. “The Legion is here and we’ll surely be targets for numerous other factions soon. We don’t have time to waste and I’m starting to plan our next few moves.”

“I knew you were a diplomat and something of a strategist but I’ll admit to not expecting this. Then again I didn’t expect you to have enough Warrior training to become a Paladin on a whim either.” Wrathion seemed more interested, for the moment at least, in watching Anduin disrobe than anything else. “I’m intrigued. What are you thinking?”

“Old Gods can be killed. Yshaarj is proof of that. That considered, wounds to N’zoth’s body are better avoided; the more difficult it is to get here the easier it will be to do that.” Anduin told him, half distracted, attacking the matter of washing up more vigorously than was strictly necessary. “Having said that, no matter how difficult it is to reach, its better we not draw further attention here. We’ll need a new base of operations, one with easier access to other places across Azeroth, and after that we’ll need to find more allies to supplement our forces. And deal with C’thun and Yogg’saron while they’re still comparatively weakened so they can’t become a problem later; if we leave them around the Twilight’s Hammer risks crumbling into civil war.” He resumed wrenching his fingers through his hair in an effort to undo more of the tangles but ended up doing more to make it worse. “Not to mention the sheer size of the project that I’ve undertaken in trying to bring Father back. There’s a reason that the coffin at Lion’s Rest was empty and it’s not because they couldn’t go back for his body: Gul’dan incinerated it. We’re going to have to build a new one. How would that even be done? Is it possible? And there’s so much to get through before we can even consider starting that-.”

“Anduin.” Wrathion quickly vanished his clothing and slid through the water towards him. “Stop that. You’re pulling out your hair.”

“I have to untangle it somehow!”

“Everything else can wait the extra minute being more gentle with yourself will take.” The Black Dragon replaced the hands in Anduin’s hair with his own before the Priest could resume his efforts. “In fact, I think doing things with a bit less force in this instance would make the effort pass faster. You’re only tangling it worse going about things like that.”

The smaller male sighed. “I suddenly feel like you and I have switched places.”

The Dragon chuckled. “I’m capable of being just as calm and objective as you are when necessary.” He said. “Will it help to know that I may have a partial solution? A potential piece of Titan technology which, if repurposed, might be the answer?”

Anduin spun his head without warning and hissed in pain when his hair caught on Wrathion’s fingers. “Where?”

“Why, Pandaria of course. The earliest Mogu experiments into Flesh-shaping were powered by the Engine of Nalak’sha.” Wrathion freed the last of the tangles and released him. “Flesh-shaping isn’t quite what we’d be doing on this case but it’s the closest equivalence. And there may be some worth, while we’re there, in seeing the Mantid as well. With the truth destruction of Yshaarj in the wake of the Siege of Orgrimmar they may be willing to enter the service of a new God.”

“Yes, there’s plenty of reason to go back to Pandaria. But we need to move before anything else. And we need to discuss potential destinations and measure what forces we currently have and what allies might be reclaimed or new found with the greatest ease with Zeryxia. And…I should speak to the Twilight’s Hammer. Moral, after all, is essential.” At this point Anduin seemed to be talking to himself more so than to Wrathion, considering and discarding ideas at a blurring pace as he redressed. The Black Prince looked on in interest.

_It’s amazing_ he thought, clicking his fingers and returning his clothing to its proper state _how much having older, allegedly wiser co-leaders to lean on and squibble with stifled him. For all he lacked in confidence as the High King of the Alliance he learned a great deal from his father and was more ready than he knew to take up the mantle. Certainly more ready than he’d ever willingly give himself credit for._

Not giving himself proper credit always had been a flaw of his Consort’s. Anduin called it ‘humility’. Wrathion called it ‘stupid’.

“Zeryxia should be somewhere in the lower portions of the temple complex.” Wrathion said. “I told her to expect a meeting with you at some time today. Are you ready to head back?”

“Did you expect me to jump back in the bath with my clothes on?” he snorted. “If that water was warm I might consider it, but it’s freezing. So yes, I’m ready to head back.”

For once Anduin was glad that the robe he’d been given was as thin as it was as it made it so much easier for the warmth of Wrathion’s scales to sink into his skin. “No matter where we end up going,” he said, “it’ll be nice to see the sky again.”

“Yes,” Wrathion agreed, “it will be.”

The doorway of the temple was large enough for Wrathion to walk through in Dragon form with room to spare. A forest of pillars etched with nightmarish hieroglyphs held up the vaulted ceiling. Splashed across the walls were images of battles and rituals from the Black Empire’s height. As Anduin slid down off of Wrathion’s back Zeryxia turned to face them, her red and orange robe a searing contrast to the deep shadows. “Master.” She said. “Earth warder.” There was a tight edge to her voice, no doubt stemming from the fact that the Black Prince had successfully turned the Hammer’s plan on its head. “The Twilight’s Hammer is at your will.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Dragoness, because there’s much to do.” He said. “Is there a better place for this? A war room, perhaps?”

“War room?” The narrowness of Zeryxia’s eyes now held a noticeably appraising edge and she tilted her head, as if to examine him from another angle. “Nothing so formal. But there are plenty of rooms to choose from.”

“Show me.”

Again the command seemed to surprise her. Never the less the self-proclaimed Mistress of Twilight turned and began to lead them deeper. “Follow me.”

The halls of the temple twisted about in much the same way as the streets outside. Anduin didn’t spare a moment in furthering his line of questioning as they passed through a weeping doorway and into a slightly smaller room. “Were you alive during the Cataclysm or was there a clutch of your Flight hidden away somewhere that someone missed?”

“Goriona and I were among a small handful of survivors.” She said. “Mother’s whispers willed that we continue the Flight and until recently I’ve been tending the new clutch in Deepholme.”

“It’s well hidden?”

“Well hidden enough with the Demons about to distract the Earthen Ring.”

“But the Demons won’t always be around.” Wrathion said, smirking in the face of the older Dragon’s glare. Anduin took up a position leaning against the wall. “And Therazane won’t take your clutch’s presence in her realm well.”

“They’ll have to be moved.” Anduin said. “ _Before_ they’re found. But that will have to wait until we’ve a place to move them too; further attention can’t be brought to Ny’alotha or I risk becoming vulnerable. I asked if you were present during the Cataclysm because I’m in need of information on past Twilight holdings which can be reclaimed with reasonable ease.”

“We had many holdings but most of them are either too exposed, too close to one of the imprisoned Gods or have been entirely dismantled.” Zeryxia said. “Except for the Citadel of Twilight and attached Bastion. They were sacked but still stood, prior to the Legion’s arrival at least, in a workable condition.”

“And now?”

“One of the first waves of the Fel incursion overran the Twilight Highlands,” Wrathion supplied. “But even now it’s only a transient point of contact with them and not of terrible importance to the Legion. For that reason it would be comparatively undefended with few, if any, portals. Minimal, if any, casualties should we go in with surprise on our side and I doubt many attempts would be made to take it back.”

“And for a citadel to have been built in the area to begin with it must have been suitable for defense.”

“Wedged in from behind by mountains, my dear,” he said. “Much like Stormwind.”

Anduin considered this for a moment before nodding. “We move to reclaim our foothold there. Once that’s done we’ll retrieve the clutch and then we head to Pandaria.” He said. “I’ll speak with the Hammer now, if you could send word to gather them. While we wait I’d like to be made aware of where we stand in regards to our numbers, allies we can potentially depend on regaining, allies we already have and discuss new ones which might simply be gained.”

“As I’m certain Zeryxia knows more of this than I would I’ll herald the news to your adoring followers.” Wrathion, still smirking, started back towards the door with a rather flippant wave of his hand. “I won’t be long.”

“He’s been like that since we first met: by now I know it’s almost always not worth the effort.” He said as the Dragoness continued glaring at the doorway. “What do you have to tell me, Zeryxia?”

“Cultists are a renewable resource with a far greater supply than there will ever be a demand, though admittedly with the Legion’s presence and illusion of superior strength most of those mortals inclined to turn to a higher power would look to the Dark Titan. Prior to the Fel incursion we replenished that branch of our forces to three fourths of their number during the Cataclysm. Somewhere around ten thousand.”

“Half the population of Stormwind.”  It wasn’t a bad number but it wasn’t a good one either and it was barely a speck of dust compared to what surrounded them. “What else do we have?”

“Five thousand Merciless Ones. One hundred Forgotten Ones.” She said. “And, of course, the N’raqi of whom there are too many to count and of which at least half are C’thraxxi. More of them spawn every day from your other body’s…secretions.”

“And Dragons?”

“Near a hundred of us are large enough to carry riders at least some distance, but none are Wyrms. There are that same number of hatched whelps and yet too small drakes in Deepholme along with the rest of the clutch.”

Anduin observed her out of the corner of one eye. “You’ve been busy.”

“We exist to further N’zoth’s ends. Your ends, now. As you’re not N’zoth, I’d assume they’re not the same.”

“The Old Gods wished to destroy the world so they could be free of their prisons and have things go back to the way they were when they ruled. I’m perfectly free at the moment and intend to remain so, so that’s no longer necessary. In fact, destroying the world would be detrimental.” He said. “This world has had no greater force truly present in its history to ensure wide spread conflict does not take place. I’m changing that.”

“By installing yourself as that power? You aim for domination.” Wearing a Blood Elf’s face somehow made her grin seem even sharper. “That is…intriguing.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so.” Anduin said dryly. “I heard that, when the world sundered and the land split apart, the Highborne-Naga, now-and Satyr turned to my kind for survival and pledged themselves to our service in return. Is that true? I know the Naga participated at least peripherally in the Cataclysm but I thought for certain that the Satyr were with the Legion.”

“Xavius is a snake but his foremost loyalty, if it can really be called that, is to the Lord of Slumber-now you-as you’re responsible for his place at the helm of the Emerald Nightmare. Azshara’s is as well. They’ll answer in fair time should you call on them though I don’t know their numbers.” Zeryxia said. “You may wish to leave them where they are for the time being. From what I hear they’re posing a considerable distraction to both Factions and one of the remaining Aspects.”

“There’s merit to that. Especially seeing as we’ll have to get involved in the Broken Isles eventually and it will be helpful to have some pre-existing entrenchment there.” He said. “Wrathion mentioned that the Mantid, who served Yshaarj, are in need of a new God. In that vein, I intend to see to it the other two are permanently sealed away; anything we might stand to skim from the rags of their forces?”

“You’d scavenge?”

“I’m not above a vulture’s form if it means gaining something I’ll need later.” He said. “Pride in others makes them ripe for us. Pride in myself, to that degree, is in the way.”

“The insects will serve if it means their survival, Master. In the end that’s all they care about, unlike most mortals.”

“Speaking of mortals,” against the backdrop of the shadows and his now pallid skin his black nails stood out in shocking relief, “I intend to approach a few of them. And resurrect my father. Once we’ve established stable ground for ourselves in the Highlands the majority of my focus will be on that endeavor. At least until it goes through. The restoration of my family is, after all, the reason I agreed to any of this in the first place.”

“And here I’d thought it was averting the impending destruction of your people that had convinced you.” How long ago Wrathion had reappeared Anduin wasn’t certain but the Dragon looked decidedly amused as he leaned his weight against the stone doorframe. “You two seem to be getting along quite well. Should I be jealous?”

“I don’t know,” covering a grin, the blonde made a playful point of looking Zeryxia over, “I do have a taste for Dragons.”

“You’re terrible my dear.” The Black Prince informed him, prompting the other to laugh. “The Twilight’s Hammer eagerly awaits the chance to fawn over you. If you’re finished here you’ll want to indulge them with the grace of your presence.”

“If I’m terrible, Wrathion, then you are ridiculous.” Grinning more than ever and ignoring the fact that he was still not wearing shoes Anduin slipped into the hallway beyond. “You’re coming?”

“In a moment.” He said. “I’d speak to my cousin first.”

“Don’t fight.”

“Me?” Wrathion pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Never!”

“And I’m Father Winter.” Anduin grumbled as he disappeared down the hallway.

“You’re interested in what I think of our new Master, Earthwarder? That’s why you want to speak with me?”

“Your Master. My consort.” He said, folding his hands at the small of his back. “But yes.”

“He’s not what I expected. I will say that.” Zeryxia said. “N’zoth wanted chaos. He wants to impose his own rule. Domination, regardless of what his idea of the ‘Greater Good’ may be, is a much better idea. I can see now, I think, the reason your Flight was so very interested in the Wrynns.”

“They’re a truly special bloodline among their race. And even among the Wrynns Anduin is set apart. I knew that from the moment I first met him.” Wrathion said with undisguised pride and fondness in his voice. “We’re entering Azeroth’s golden age. Once these few finally things have fallen into place and the constant wars are put to end I’ll never have to truly worry for the future of this world again. And that assurance is all that I, or anyone else, could ever truly ask for.”


	6. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have some amazing fan art on this one, done by Icey (elbrethali is their deviantart), entitled "Former King of Stormwind".

Anduin Wrynn had always had the power of speech at his fingertips and Wrathion had many a time experienced one of the young Priest’s impassioned tirades about why one thing or another he’d done at the Tavern in the Mists was concerning in its implications or some other such thing but they had never been so impressive as the one he gave before the gathered Hammer. Where all those in the past had been infused with the soft warmth of the Light this one had been fueled, fully, by the Void. His words held the same acidic burn as the ichor which now flowed through him, his unearthly eyes blazed like Shadowflame and the damp air became charged with a crackling unholy energy which licked along his skin in dizzying patters, sinister and alluring, and seemed to manifest images of his words before the eyes of all who were watching. With infectious passion, and with the Cult hanging off every letter as if they’d die without them, Anduin spoke. Introducing himself not a N’zoth but a stronger-and how could they deny that claim when he had won-new born, fifth Old God. Calling himself Al’gothoth. Promising them glory and battle; protection in return for service; a return to their former stronghold and a permanent end to the need to hide because of their beliefs. He’d called for organization; for loyalty; for obedience; for preparation. He’d gotten everything, predictably, yet with more enthusiasm than Wrathion had previously thought even zealots capable of.

That was how, after just two days, everything had somehow managed to fall into place with more speed than it had a reasonable right to and the two of them had found themselves back in their room atop the complex tower. Wrathion had sprawled across the bed, taking up the entire space for himself, while watching Anduin stand in the middle of the room with a banner pinned by one hand to his chest for critical examination.

“I think it turned out well.” He said, evidently pleased as he fingered the coarse fabric. “And its enchanted so that the position can be changed when everything comes to fruition. What do you think?”

The back drop was still dark purple. The pattern was still wing-like. The cult’s emblem was still a hammer. The hammer was still black. The only difference was the dormant wolf which curled atop it, threaded in a purple shade which was only slightly lighter than its surroundings. Difficult to pick out, and even then seeming to shimmer in and out of focus. Like a ghost. “You certainly don’t miss an opportunity for a highly visible homage.”

“He was a great man and important to me. Though sometimes I fear I didn’t appreciate him enough while he was here.” Anduin folded the banner with a sigh. “A few nods is the very least that I can do.”

“A few?” Wrathion repeated, smirking. “My dear, anymore wolves and we’ll be mistaken for a clan of Orcs.” Anduin had to purse his lips to keep himself from smiling and shook his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Famous last words, coming from you.” The blonde cut in.

“Al’gothoth. It’s Shath’yar, yes? Is there significance to it or did you simply choose a word which began with the appropriate letter?” Wrathion asked. “If so I hope you checked the meaning first. Having it suddenly come out that they’d been going around calling you ‘Lord Pumpkin’ would be embarrassing for everyone.”

“Becoming an Old God myself made me fluent in the language, Wrathion. I can be certain I did not, in fact, rebrand myself as ‘Lord Pumpkin’ in the eyes of the Hammer.” He set the folded banner down on one of the tables. “It’s the closest possible translation of the title I was given the moment my father came to be known as ‘Ghost Wolf’, simply by merit of being his son.”

“And what title would that be?”

Anduin smiled sadly and turned to face the window. Wrathion frowned but let the topic drop, allowing his focus to shift instead to the profile view that he’d been offered.

Blue, white and gold were the colors Wrathion had always associated with his Consort, never having seen him in anything else. They’d suited him of course, assisted by his blue eyes and gilt hair, but black, silver and nightshade suited him too. Better, in some ways, now that the Void had taken the place of the Light which had once been within him. The clothing he’d replaced the loose robe with was in similar style to what he’d worn before and clung to him in all the right places. A sable overcoat with charcoal borders. An Embersilk shirt dyed deep purple, open at the throat and showing a flattering amount of collar bone. Pants which were a shade darker than the overcoat and silver-edged knee high boots which matched his gloves.

“I see you’re ready to head out on that scouting mission.” Wrathion’s eyes followed the curving form of the Dragon-headed Obsidium staff strapped to Anduin’s back-which he’d been shown contained a sharp surprise-down to his waist where a dagger and libram were secured to a black belt. “Usually, as I’m certain you’re aware, rulers send scouts afield for those. As is sort of implied in the term. Any of my Black Talons  could have gone at a moment’s notice and I could have seen through them using the Blood stones. And you through me with that Mind Vision Priest nonsense.”

“I could have. But I want to see it for myself: what’s left of the Highlands as they currently stand; the Legion’s forces there; exactly what we’re facing. I’ve never had the privilege of doing so before, always being too ‘important’ to put myself at risk.” He rolled his shoulders, the black over coat revealing itself to be much less restricting than it looked. “I can now. And I intend to. If you’re not comfortable with coming Goriona has offered; as the last surviving member of Deathwing’s personal guard I’m sure she’d manage well enough in taking care of me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in going.” Wrathion sat up and slid off the bed. “I simply wanted confirmation of the fact I was correct about your reasoning.”

The Shadow Priest turned back towards him specifically so, Wrathion suspected, the Dragon could clearly see him roll his eyes. “How much control do you still have over your Black Talons?”

“Left, Right and a small handful of others I know for certain will answer. Of the rest I’m not so sure.” He said. “Despite making it clear I wanted those in my employ to sever their ties with their Factions of origin I lost quite a few of those stemming from the Horde when I came out in the Alliance’s support. More of those who remained were quite displeased by my sudden disappearance to Draenor. I suppose it could be said that only the truly loyal-as far as such a term truly goes for Rogues-remain. You’re interested in using them?”

“I need a replacement SI: 7 and they could assist in putting the Rogues among the Hammer to the best possible use.” He said. “They’d still remain under your command, of course.”

“I knew to expect the question since you began organizing the lot of them by class and naming veterans of their ranks as their heads.” Wrathion said. “Once we have things in order so far as reclamation goes I’ll issue the call. Those who come will be at your hand. Will we be traveling through the Void or the Nightmare?”

“The Void. I’m at least familiar with Shadow Magic. Where I do, in an inelegant and entirely maladroit capacity, have a grasp on all of N’zoth’s powers I think we may want to wait a bit longer before trying to move things and forces through the Nightmare. In case I can’t stop them from getting stuck.” Anduin said; that would not, in any way, be helpful. “I’m going to take us to the western border of the Wetlands; we’ll fly in from there and stay high. With luck the moon won’t be terribly bright and we can use distance from the ground and the darkness to our advantage. It’s best we find a suitable staging ground while there as well.”

“Perhaps a position in the mountains between the Wetlands and the Highlands would be best, then.” Wrathion said as they exited the room, starting down the curling tower stairs. “It would better preserve the element of surprise.”

“You’re probably right about that.” Anduin said, boots thudding down the last few stairs and overcoat creating a stately flare behind him. “We need to check in on my bow first; if it’s done by now then I want it with me. I’m a better shot than anything else.”

“A spell caster once powerful in the Light and now unsurpassed in the Void. Warrior training. Enough time spent with your SI: 7 to at least be able to avoid cutting yourself on that dagger when you use it. A capable shot.” Wrathion shook his head, the hanging loop in his ear softly clattering. “Tsk, beloved. Choose a class.”

“Why be pigeon-holed when I don’t have to be?” Anduin shot back, grinning. “Chiefly, as you’re well aware, I’m a Priest: formerly Discipline and now Shadow. Presenting myself as a cloth wearer, a glass canon and soft target, comes with certain expectations from my enemies. Playing that in with the inherent tendency to underestimate me which comes hand in hand with my size and youth, I’m able to take opponents quite by surprise when they suddenly find a sword buried hilt-deep in their face.”

“You become ever more devious by the day,” the Dragon said, “I’m impressed.”

“I’ve always been this devious.” Anduin told him flatly. “It’s just more obvious now that the Light isn’t around to blind people to that fact. It’s amazing. And sad.”

“How well a pair of innocent blue eyes can work to reduce you, in the eyes of even the most cautious, to a harmless lamb?”

His sharp teeth flashed. “The amount religion can blind those who follow it to the truth that Light and Void do not amount to Good and Evil.”

“Well, you and I both know how ridiculous I’ve always found the entire concept of organized religion.” Wrathion said. “Not that I don’t believe such things as God’s exist. You, beloved, would certainly make for a stunning hallucination.”

Seeing the playfully suggestive way the glowing red eyes slid down his form Anduin gently took his chin to redirect his gaze. “Keep track of your eyes, my dear.”

“Of course.” The fabric of the gloves he wore was soft and felt oddly like leather. His fingers curled around the thin wrist beneath. “Though I’m interested in knowing where this line of thinking came from. Whatever happened to the devout golden Prince I first fell for so long ago?”

“Gods don’t practice religion, they benefit from it. My understanding has changed; I understand more about the true nature of the Light and the Void than I ever did before.” He said. “The Light isn’t Good. The Void isn’t evil. Perhaps baring Fel, they’re no different than any other power source. It’s the beings that stemmed from them, which were Good and Evil, that defined our views of them. That’s why the Light can be used for terrible atrocities and the Void for good, though not without risk.” Anduin’s gaze shifted to their hands and he released the Dragon’s chin in favor of linking their fingers. A strange sadness seemed to come over him and he said “I’ve lived my life by the teachings of the Church and always told myself that I’d be good. Now I just…am. And I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“My dear,” with his free hand, Wrathion pushed a stray lock of hair back behind Anduin’s ear, “I do believe I once heard from a very wise man that it is our choices and what we do with our powers that matter far more than where they come from.”

Golden eyebrows knit together and for a long time he didn’t answer, then Anduin nodded. “Promise me something, would you?”

“I’d rather know what I’m promising before I answer that.”

Wrathion expected to receive some witty comment about his evasiveness in return. Under other circumstances he might have. “If I ever become like the others lock me away. Lock me away and make sure I can never get out.”

“If I ever have reason to believe you’ve become like the other Shath’yar and cannot be pulled out of that pattern of behavior I’ll do all in my power to lock you away. But you won’t. Because as much as becoming an Old God has changed you in some ways in others you’re still very much the same. And I know you don’t have it in you to be anything truly like N’zoth or the others.” Wrathion used the fact that their hands were still joined to pull Anduin forward. “Now, we should get back to what we were doing. You wanted to check in on the progress of your bow before we headed off and seeing as we’ve only so many hours between now and morning we shouldn’t waste more time.”

“You’re right. The Highlands are of considerable size and we can’t afford to be seen. We probably won’t be able to see most of the area in one night.”

“I see you’re still thinking me confined to the same limits as the Alliance’s chimeran freaks. A Dragon my size can fly from one end of the Highland’s to the other twice over in a mere handful of hours if they’ve a need to. It can’t be truly even dark yet; maybe just passed moonrise.” The Black Prince never the less took the steps down from the temple two at a time; they were both eager to get out of Ny’alotha. “Do you intend to name them?”

Anduin sent him a look which could only be described as strange. “Name what?”

“Your weapons. I understand that that’s what’s done with certain pieces of gear.” He said. “Didn’t your father’s sword have a name?”

“Shalamayne.” Anduin said, nodding. “But he’s not the one who named it.”

“Well, I doubt the blade named itself.”

“I’ll give you fair point with that one.” Though he didn’t doubt there were some weapons in existence which would be capable of such things. Even being as he was now, he’d prefer to avoid those. “I never gave it any thought, really. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Oh, my dear, _I_ am a wealth of ideas and I assure you that every one of them will be marvelous.” The Dragon nodded as he spoke, looking so matter of fact about his statement that Anduin couldn’t help but laugh. It was just so completely Wrathion. “You’ll find it difficult to choose.”

“Try me.”

Pleased to have successfully chased off the lingering pensiveness which had clung to the other since the conclusion of their prior topic Wrathion made a show of circling around the former King and stroking his goatee. The golden hoop swung about as he tilted his head. “Blazefury fits a Fire Mage better. Massacre is a bit too violent for your tastes, I’m sure, even now. Oblivion? Oathkeeper? Reflection? Phantomstrike?”

“Are you coming up with these or did you give a five year old a dictionary and tell them to pick cool words?” Anduin snorted when he received a dirty look.

“I’d like to see you do better, Mr. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Sighing, the Priest removed the staff and examined it for a long time before settling on “I think I like Iapetus. With the hidden blade, it seems fitting.”

“Whatever makes it seem fitting to you is entirely lost to me.” Wrathion sounded as if admitting as much pained him. “What’s an Iapetus?”

“You’re aware of my love of reading?” the Dragon’s nod was somewhat impatient. “Well, as a child I was always getting into things and one day when I was twelve I found a book in Stormwind’s library which detailed ancient myth and history. I got a lecture on paganism from Bolvar after he found me with it, but that’s beside the point. The book detailed what Human Religion was prior to the revelation of the Light: Iapetus the Piercer, God of Mortality, was one of twelve odd deities they worshiped in the area that became the Northern Kingdoms.”

“So you’ve named your staff, essentially, Mortality: the Piercer?” the Black Prince crossed his arms. “I still think Phantomstrike is better.”

“Because you suggested it?”

Suspiciously, his companion had no response.

Anduin had been certain to request a simple recurve bow in hopes of avoiding anything too terribly ostentatious or covered in spikes and the Orc who’d volunteered his skills as a bowyer had made an admirable effort. Though Wrathion noticed with amusement, and Anduin gracefully avoided commenting on, the fact that the Cultist hadn’t entirely been able to restrain himself.

“You should have known he’d want to provide you with more than wood and sinew.” The Dragon snickered as they left. “You are, after all, the sole target of concentrated fanatical devotion. Any old bow simply wouldn’t be suitable.”

From its graceful limbs to its wire string the bow was jet black and now hung across Anduin’s back alongside Iapetus and a quiver of raven-fletched arrows. “It’s well made, I won’t deny that, but it also has enough weight behind it to be used as a club. And that’s not to mention the poundage.” He pulled himself up onto Wrathion’s back. “These arrows could probably go through the walls of Stormwind Keep!”

“The fact you have a small siege ballista in your hands is more due to your strength than the poundage of the bow.” Wrathion said. “I thought you said you were an archer.”

“I said I was a competent shot, that’s not the same thing.” Detaching the libram from his hip Anduin quickly thumbed through it until he found the proper page. “Let’s hope my pronunciation is correct.”

The Black Prince’s head whipped around. “I thought you said you were fluent!”

The blonde grinned, closing the libram and returning it to his belt. “I was only joking.” He said. “I just needed to remind myself of the spell. I’ll get the portal open in another moment.”

Shath’yar was a vile tongue, reminding him terribly of the language spoken by the Legion, and even Anduin’s voice couldn’t redeem the caustic syllables. Wrathion’s scales were visibly on end by the time the spell was finished, another smaller tear in reality hanging in the air in front of them.

“Can I trust that not to collapse on us, my dear?”

Anduin whacked him gently on the shoulder. “Do you want me to walk through first to prove it?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Wrathion’s claws clacked against the stone floor as he stepped through the opening. Stone abruptly transitioning into prickly sedge that reached his flanks. “I’ve heard that if one travels through Mage Portals enough they begin to become used to the feeling. Hopefully those Void Rifts operate similarly.”

“Hopefully that adjustment happens faster.” Anduin said, paging through the libram again the find the proper spell to close the rift. “Because getting used to those took me three years.”

“It would be unfortunate if it took that long.” Wrathion tilted his head up towards the sky; the stars were ceilinged over by clouds and smoke and the moon was new. Not the most welcoming sight after so long with a similar dome over their heads but perfect conditions for what they’d come to do. “Is there anything you wish to do here in the Wetlands before we move on?”

He’d never been and for a moment the desire to see Menethil Harbor swelled within him but Anduin pushed it away. There’d be endless time for exploration later. “No.” He said. “We need to get moving.”

Wrathion’s take off, this time, was a much calmer affair than the last two had been: a brief sweep of large wings tore them from the earth and they began to climb immediately into the air. The wind rushed passed. The scents of salt water and grass and sun-warmed soil were rapidly replaced with the iron tang of snow as they passed the snow line. The peaks and valleys of the buttressing mountains rose and fell beneath them, latticed through with crags and canyons.

“If we brought the Hammer to that valley there,” despite being uncertain of whether or not the Dragon could see him from his position Anduin pointed at the valley in question, “could we use the crevices and passes to travel through on foot? Would you be able to join the ones which aren’t currently connected?”

“Anduin, I could likely _raise_ a mountain if I wished to. Connecting cracks would be simply done.” He called back. “It will take at least a few days travel to reach the Highlands that way. You realize that?”

“Better delay our full force than rush in with only a small part. We only have a pittance of Drakes at the current time.” He said. “Even with surprise on our side it’s better we not take the risk. I won’t treat my followers like pawns to be thrown away.”

“I see that bleeding heart of yours yet remains intact. Watch that it not get in the way of your iron fist or that satin glove may stain.”

Anduin shook his head and returned his gaze to the ground. The mountains were rapidly receding and Wrathion had once more begun to climb, the combined affect one of the world falling away. And then the Highlands opened up below them.

The land was clearly Fel scarred; deep gashes of sickly green latticed the ground where there had once been harshly windswept grass. Over black rock and charred soil Demons of all kinds swarmed. Smoke and sparks sputtered from their forges and their portals swirled blinding emerald against the surrounding dark. Highbank lay half sunk beneath the shallow waves, the crumbling ruins of its keep still smoldering with viridian embers. Dragonmaw Post had suffered a batter fate, its scoured shell playing host to several more portals which jutted up like mushrooms from between bleached ribs.

The worst, by far, was the citadel: much to his displeasure the fiends seemed to have taken a shine to the Elementium towers and spines and had made themselves quite at home there. Around the entrance to the Bastion a colony of Felbats spun. Anduin didn’t need to look inside to know the place was infested.

“It would seem that we have quite a battle in front of us.” He said as they banked around towards the ruins of Grim Batol. “At least I’ll have an outlet for the pent up energy.”

“Between the fighting and the repairs I think we all will.” Wrathion said. “What are we going to do with Highbank and Dragonmaw Port?”

“Destroy them. When the Alliance and Horde inevitably come here hunting me it’s better they have to rebuild their footholds from the ground up. The Hammer can have the island to do with as it wishes, even if that’s building something ridiculous like a twenty foot statue of me.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that, my dear.” Wrathion said as they once more approached the mountains. “They might actually erect one. Though I doubt they’d stop at twenty feet.”

“Even they’re not that crazy.” Anduin said. “Besides, when would they find the time?”

The Black Prince couldn’t help but wonder when his Consort would learn not to jinx things.


	7. Twilight Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another nice piece of fan art from Icey, this time of the spell to make the sky go dark. As always, all credit to them and please go check them out at elbrethali on deviantart

The sky above them was formed by white strips of trailing clouds, viewed through the narrow opening between the towering walls of the canyon they’d traipsed through for the better part of the past day. It was approaching the third day since they’d brought their forces through from Ny’alotha and Wrathion had begun to grow restless with the knowledge that any hour now, maybe even any minute, they’d be through the mountains at last and would launch a strike against the Legion. He’d begun to be able to smell the foul smoke from their hellish forges at some point around mid-day and at that same point Anduin had sped his pace; a slight change, so much so that it wouldn’t have been noticeable to those further down the Twilight’s Hammer’s military caravan, but enough for the Black Prince to know that his Consort was just as eager for the coming fight as he was.

More so, perhaps, as Anduin had blood to pay for blood in this where Wrathion did not.

The Priest had kept up their forward motion with little quarter despite the rough terrain and had spent most of their time traveling with his face buried in the libram’s pages and his staff in hand to better feel his way onwards while his eyes were otherwise occupied. He’d justified the action with the fact that his knowledge of Shadow Magic, especially the more complex spells, was limited at best and that stopping to look up what he needed in the heat of battle wouldn’t be the wisest choice. Wrathion had conceded that point with grace, too distracted by memories of Anduin tottering around the Tavern which his three-tap step invoked to bother putting up a respectable argument.

“The end of the canyon is only half a mile away.” He said as the other snapped the libram closed and returned it to his belt. “The Highlands are just ahead of us.”

“I know.” Anduin said. “I can smell the fresh air.”

Not that fresh with the stink of Fel thick on the breeze but fresher, at least, than the nearly static air within the canyons they’d traveled in for the past few days. Fresher than the air in Ny’alotha.

“Our plans haven’t changed?” dimly Wrathion was aware he must have asked the smaller male something to the same affect close to fifty times that day alone but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It had always been in his nature to get hung up on details. Perhaps that, in large part, was why the plans he made alone so often failed.

To the credit of Anduin’s near to endless well of patience all the former King did was smile. “No, my dear Dragon, our plans haven’t changed since the last time you asked me that.”

“For my peace of mind,” stones crunched beneath their boots and the boots of the Cultists behind them, “remind me again of what that plan is.”

“Our forces will move on all possible points of contact at once, leaving no place to run and no chance to fortify. The Hammer will press the Demons from all sides, above and below. And you and I will move from place to place as need be. The last act of the battle will be clearing the Bastion.” Iapetus’ metal foot shattered a small pebble as it landed with a heavy clank. “We’ll show the Burning Legion the Twilight’s Hammer’s power. With any luck it will get back to that Warlock and he’ll start to look over his shoulder and flinch at the name of ‘Wrynn’.”

“You want him running when you and your father finally corner him?” Wrathion said.

The patient smile shifted into one of malice: a simple bearing of curved and jagged teeth. “The hunt won’t be fun otherwise.” He said. “And I don’t just want Gul’dan running. I want him in terror.”

“And which one of you will kill him?”

A measure of amusement turned the expression on his face back into a smile but did nothing to soften it. “Ripping apart the bastard strikes me as the sort of thing that’s fun for the whole family. We’ll make it another occasion for father-son bonding. Perhaps father-in-law and Dragon-in-law bonding as well if you’d like a piece.”

“I think that privilege should be saved for the most injured parties: in this case that’s you and your father.” The look Anduin got in his eyes when the topic of Gul’dan came up struck him as something he’d want to get in the way of about as much as a pair of fighting Shath’yar. Which would be exactly what he’d be getting in the way of if he took his Consort up on the offer: the fact that they wouldn’t be fighting each other was an entirely moot point.

If anything it made the thought even more terrifying.

The canyon curved a meandering bend to the left and then opened up ahead of them into a slopping descent towards the scarred Highlands. The sun hung on the Western horizon, barely clinging to the tips of the mountains, and the shadows stretched long across the Legion below. As their forces emerged from the narrow channel in the rock and began to fan out behind them, Cultists and N’raqi breaking into pre-assigned groups and Drakes preparing to take wing, Anduin raised his hands and said “I hope this works” barely loud enough for Wrathion to hear. A moment later he’d slipped into Shath’yar and recited a spell which seemed to rip the sun the rest of the way from the sky, plunging the Highlands into darkness. “ _Twilight’s Hammer,”_ he bellowed over sounds of alarm from below, _“attack!”_

War cries rang out in Common, Thalassian, Orcish and Zandali. Metal hissed as weapons were torn from their sheaths. The gibbering shrieks of charging N’raqi and the roaring of Drakes taking flight echoed through the air. Together, around and passed them, their forces surged down the steep incline and crashed against their unsuspecting foes with all the mercy of a rising tide.

The din of battle rang up to them on the wind along with the scents of Fel and blood. Shrieks and epithets in Eredun could be heard, it seemed, from clear across the Highlands as could rallying cries and pledges to his chosen name. Anduin held the darkness in place for as long as he could, blotting out what remained of the sunlight and after it had set the weaker glow of the moon and stars, and for that small eternity the only lights which could be seen were the sickly green of Fel Magic and the blue-violet hue of Twilight Dragon breath and the Void at his fingers and the glow of his eyes. But this his hold broke and he staggered. Catching himself against black scales.

“Are you alright?” Wrathion swung his head around to look him over as the dim light of new evening returned with near blinding vengeance. Blinking furiously to force his eyes to adjust Anduin nodded and swung himself up onto his back.

“Perfectly alright. That was a lot more involved than I expected it to be; I thought I’d be able to hold it in place for longer.”

“Twenty minutes is impressive.”

“And twenty more could have made the difference between no casualties and having a body count.” And there was the other bad habit of Anduin’s which went hand in hand with his common failure to take deserved credit, and about which Wrathion had forgotten: his tendency to be far harder on himself than need be. “Head to Highbank first. Hurry!”

Wrathion launched himself off the top of the rise with a roar and swept across the spilling battle lines towards the remains of the Alliance encampment which had once stood atop the half-submerged island, pleased by the fear he saw in the eyes of the Demons over which his shadow fell. Anduin was raining down arrows on the fiends and, not about to be out done, the Black Prince opened his mouth and released a flood of fire.

“That would be forty five, my dear.”

“Forty five?” the blonde spluttered, twisting around in his perch to send a swooping Felbat crashing to the ground. “Who’s bloody counting? And why?”

“I’m ‘bloody counting’ and I don’t see why not.” The Dragon shot back as they swung across the water. “We should make this as much fun as possible considering none of these Demons are a real threat to either of us. Shall we say the loser has to suck the winner off?”

“Forty.” The bow string snapped and another arrow struck a Demon dead. “Deluges of fire, Wrathion, are _not fair_!”

“All’s fair in love and war, Anduin. Pick up your game.” Letting out another roar, the Black Prince dropped out of the sky into the middle of High Bank with enough force to shake the remainder of the island. One of the walls crumbled to the ground. Incinerating one hoard of Demons, he sent another group flying with a swipe of his tail.

“Damn it, Wrathion!” It was snarled like a battle call as Anduin leapt from the Dragon’s back. Tucking his shoulder and rolling up into a crouch, taking a Felhunter’s legs at the knees with a swipe of the sword blade hidden in his staff as he went. “You are so dead for that false start you cheater!”

“Every advantage, beloved. You’re dealing with the Black Flight.”

The charge of a Fel Guard stole Anduin’s attention away from a response as he ducked the first swing of its heavy axe and blocked another with crossed blade and shaft. Throwing the Demon aside with the sudden appearance of a tentacle from behind. A pair of Drakes were circling the keep, bombarding it with breath attacks and tail strikes to bring the ceiling down on the Demons inside. He threw his dagger at the exposed back of an Eredar Warlock as he darted forward, ripping it free of the Demons body after it had only barely hit the ground and lunging for a Succubus.

The barbed lash that it was armed with opened a bone deep gash along his cheek and Anduin recoiled. Hissing. Feeling ichor trickle down his skin even as the cut began slowly sealing itself shut. Stowing the dagger back in its proper place he paced to the Demon’s left and tried to circle around behind it. It turned with him and struck out again. The barrier he erected was black, not gold, but the blow rebounded all the same and that was what mattered.

Revealing pointed teeth in a feral grin, already splattered with flecks of glowing Felblood, he calmly recited the necessary spell to send every Demon within twenty feet of him up in Shadowfire.

“I thought ‘deluges of fire weren’t fair’.” Wrathion snorted, snapping his jaws shut around an Observer which popped like a Darkmoon Faire balloon.

“I thought all was fair in love and war.” Anduin retorted as he heaved himself up onto the Dragon’s back. “Dragonmaw Port isn’t far. Sixty three.”

“Eighty one, my dear.”

“There are still four more places we need to clear, Wrathion, so I’d advise you not to rest on your laurels quite yet.” Anduin didn’t know if it was the blood lust, the excitement of battle or the rush of competition-even if the game they were playing was tantamount to Jihui as ultimately both of them ‘won’-but his heart was thudding like a war drum and his blood felt as if it had been electrified. Every one of his senses in buzzing over drive. Every motion of everything around him suddenly stark in clarity. If this was how war made everyone feel he could understand why the Alliance and Horde kept at it so vigorously.

Anduin didn’t even give Wrathion the chance to land this time, determined to gain a head start and close at least some of the gap between them. The tentacles which erupted from the ground in the midst of the fighting were covered in hooked, rotating spines; the Demons within their reach were subjected to a ferocious beating and the emerald portals they wrapped around were swiftly crushed to dust.

Wrathion’s talons punched holes in the heaving earth as he thundered towards a Shivarra. Anduin slipped around a pack of his Hammer engaged with a Wrath Guard and a C’thraxx busy reducing a swarm of imps to furry pancakes and set his eyes on another Eredar. This one was male and considerably larger than the first had been. Larger than most Draeni. Dwarfing him three times over with deep-set yellow eyes and blistered ruby skin. Fel and Shadow clashed as they both fired off spells at once, the collision resulting in a vibrant plume of light which stained the sky and began to bleed like running paint.

As Anduin weathered a hail of meteors behind the Black Shield and set the Demon tumbling with a Shadow Word he could only hope whatever had happened wasn’t permanent. It looked pretty, sure, but for all he knew the dissipating Magic might have a mutating effect on wildlife. Or people. He wasn’t a Druid but knew that would be bad.

“Seventy nine.”

“You’re catching up.” Wrathion told him, though the sword toothed grin made it clear he wasn’t doing it very quickly. “Ninety. But I went easy on you there.” Where the former King had learned that particular rude gesture the Black Prince wasn’t sure, though given how suspiciously Orcish it looked he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was something he’d picked up from Garrosh during the trial.

Grim Batol, according to Wrathion, did not go well. The size of the doorway and most of the streets reduced him to being stuck in his half-elf form, limited to his daggers and his magic. Grim Batol, according to Anduin, went marvelously as he pulled ahead by a not insignificant margin.

“One hundred and thirty five.” He chirped from atop the head of a dead Pit Lord. A small dead Pit Lord but a dead Pit Lord all the same.

“That,” Wrathion hissed, punting a particularly annoying Wyrmtongue over the crumbling lip into the abyss, “only counts as one!”

“One hundred and twenty then.” Anduin leapt down from his perch, his boots splashing in the puddle of Felblood which had gathered beneath the Demon’s body. “I think this is the point where I say ‘your move’?”

“What happed to ‘not resting on your laurels’?” shifting back into his Dragon form Wrathion spread his wings and lifted back into the sky. “We still have the Citadel and the Bastion to go through.”

“No reason for you to panic, then.” He said. “You still have a chance to catch up.” Anduin was covered in cuts and bruises but considering the amount of damage he’d taken during the fighting his state was much better than it would have been had he still been Human. Between the ichor and the Felblood his clothing would need to be either washed or burned, all depending on whether or not the stains were permanent. “All the more reason for you to pit in more effort.”

“You act like I’ve been slacking off.”

“Not slacking off, no, but perhaps relying too much on your fire.” Anduin said. “What did you do before you were magically transformed into a Wyrm?”

“I managed.”

The Drakes had closed in around them in a blue and violet phalanx, their eyes glowing in the faint starlight. Below them, marching around N’zoth’s furiously twitching tentacles and over the fallen bodies of Demons, their ground forces surged towards the Fel-twisted spires of _their_ citadel which crouched on the near horizon.

“Forward, my friends! We take back what is ours!” The roar from the ground was echoed by many of the Drakes around them.

“For a pacifist,” Wrathion said as the Citadel bore down on them, “you certainly know how to inspire an army.”

“I was raised to be a King. Even when my Warrior training ended those lessons didn’t stop.” The shrieking flock of Felbats which they’d seen circling the entrance of the Bastion during their fly over broke away from the spire and swooped at them. Anduin ripped his blade from his staff and thrust it forwards. “ _Fire!_

Lilac and deep orange erupted forwards in a blistering wall of smoke and flame. The Demons, taken by surprise, were unable to avoid their demise and tumbled towards the earth in a rain of ash.

Wrathion’s red eyes met his. “One hundred and twenty one.”

Anduin huffed and said “bring me down!”

“As you wish, my dear.” As he had in the ruins of Highbank Wrathion dropped down into the midst of the Citadel, crushing scours of Demons beneath his taloned feet. “One hundred and thirty five.”

“Enjoy your lead while it lasts.” Pegging three Demons with bolts of Shadow, Anduin leapt down from the Dragon’s back with a laugh. “I’ll catch up with you once we’re in the Bastion.”

“You can tell yourself that, Anduin, but it doesn’t make it true.” The earth rose up in claw-like protrusions and collapsed upon a contingent of Wrath Guards. “You’ve got quite a bit of work ahead of you.”

Throwing up another barrier just in time to avoid a set of snapping jaws Anduin blasted the Felhunter aside and pulled down his bow. “I don’t doubt that.”

A raspy heckle brought his gaze around to his left to find a Terrorfiend rushing towards him, teeth clenched and the mouth in its chest open wide as if to swallow him. He fired at it but missed, the arrow vanishing over its left wing, and dove to the side with barely enough time to avoid the swipe of a taloned hand. Anduin lost his balance on landing and toppled. Remarkably agile for something with hooves the Demon spun around and pounced.

Grabbing the bow by the arm with both hands he swung, the metal limb cracking against the gaping maw with enough force to break teeth and send drool flying. The bow itself held up miraculously well but he didn’t allow himself time to process that fact, driving an arrow through the Fiend’s eye and sending it stumbling back with a shriek. The Hammer could finish it off.

They’d finished almost everything off now: bodies and Felblood covered the earth in a foul layer inches deep, the stench enough to make his nose burn and eyes water. An N’raqi was pounding an already unrecognizable Demon into a thorough pulp. A short ways ahead of him two of his Hammer-a Mage and a Warrior-were tearing through the defenses a few of the Legion’s Warlocks had attempted to erect. A Fel Guard crashed to the earth a few feet to his left, it bones shattering on impact with a series of satisfying cracks, dropped by one of the Drakes swooping overhead.

“One hundred and forty five.” He informed the Dragon as he settled into place on his back. “And now the Bastion.”

“And now the Bastion: it seems we’re tied.” Wrathion flung a final demon aside with his tail and lifted of the ground. “So that you’re aware, Rafa and her contingent have already gone ahead. They should be well into the Bastion by now.”

“They went ahead?” he repeated, aghast. “What were they thinking?”

“I doubt they were, but they shouldn’t fair terribly badly.” Landing in front of the entrance Wrathion barely gave Anduin the time to dismount before he shifted back. “Regardless we should head in after them. The rest of those assigned to join us up here should be along at any moment.”

“You’re right. Come on.” With Iapetus clutched in his hand and not a thought spared to the discomfort of portal travel Anduin barreled head long through the swirling doorway. He’d expected to see Demons and that was exactly what he got but unlike what he’d thought all of them were very thoroughly dead and quite a few had been hacked into small pieces. Glowing green blood formed a vile slick across the floor which made crossing the entry room difficult. The steps weren’t much better and more than once one or both of them nearly went pitching down them.

“Well, they’ve certainly done a job of it.” Wrathion said as they ran through yet another chamber of Fel mush. “We may not get another fight in, in which case I win.”

“What? We were tied!”

“I killed that last Demon as we were taking off, remember? It’s one hundred and forty six for me against your one hundred and forty five.”

Eventide eyes sent him a brief, sharp glare. “Don’t claim victory yet. I hear fighting up ahead.”

“Shall we make this the tie breaker, then?” the Black Prince grinned at him, teeth less jagged but equally sharp. “Whatever Demon is in there counts as twenty.”

“Deal.” Anduin took off towards the fighting at a run. “First one there gets five bonus points!”

“Oi!” Wrathion tore off after him, catching up just as they barreled into the chamber where Cho’gall had once sat on the Hammer’s throne. Both pulled up short. The Demon waiting for them there, easily holding off all twelve Cultists at once, was nothing to joke about.

“Nathrezim!”

“Ah, so the leader of this destructive rabble reveals himself at last.” The Dreadlord’s small, cruel eyes fell on him. “Al’gothoth, the ‘God’ these mortals have been piping off about, is in fact the Alliance’s missing King: Anduin Wrynn.”

“Just because none of the Demons who have seen me got away doesn’t mean I was hiding.” He said. “Can I have your name, since you know both of mine?”

“I am Detheroc,” the Demon’s smirk was like a blade, “and you, boy, will die just like your father did! You and your little pets!”

The ring of green fire which billowed from where the Demon stood felled the Cultists without warning and rushed towards them across the polished floor. Anduin threw up another barrier, taken quite by alarm when the force of the Fel Magic’s collision cracked the black shell like a glass pane.

“Anduin-!”

“I’m fine!” Gritting his teeth he drew upon more of his mana and reinforced the barrier with new magic. Bracing it with both his hands. Feeling his feet beginning to slip back along the ground. “That thing isn’t like what we faced outside. This will actually be a difficult fight.”

“Of course this won’t be easy; the Nathrezim are among the Legion’s most dangerous races.” Wrathion’s red eyes glowed in the darkness behind the barrier. “But we’re more than enough for him together.”

“I’m not taking any chances.” Anduin said. “When I drop this barrier get away from me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to control it.”

The Dragon wasn’t given a chance to ask what ‘it’ was before the barrier of black light shattered. Drawing the daggers from his sides and briefly bemoaning his preference for white Wrathion circled around to the side of the Dread Lord, keeping his eyes on its flank even as Anduin’s voice dropped into a warped register he’d never heard before and the Demon proclaimed a gleeful “yes, Shath’yar, match your Shadow Magic against mine!”

He dared a brief glimpse at his Consort and only narrowly avoided doing a double take. ‘Shadow form’ was a term he’d heard before, of course, but he’d never seen it for himself and the descriptions of adventurers and tomes didn’t compare to the sight itself. Anduin looked as if he’d been wrapped in the night sky: the cobalt distortion of the void coiled around his silhouette cut from solid darkness, his eyes reduced to wide white spotlights which didn’t blink. Cold fear flooded him and he almost tripped over his feet, tearing his eyes away and lunging at the Demon.

The Dread Lord’s wing intercepted the blow; his dagger cut a shallow gash along the leathery webbing but did little more and the force of the retaliatory sweep nearly threw Wrathion backwards. Anduin battered the Demon with spells ranging from Shadowfire bolts to Mind Spikes only to have them blocked or redirected. Another black barrier broke a carrion swarm and held against a blow from raking claws but shattered under the spell that followed.

Anduin stumbled back from the recoil and moved to draw his blade but the Dread Lord was faster; the sleeping spell failed to knock him entirely off his feet but it did bend him double.

“Anduin!” The Demon roared in fury when Wrathion’s weight crashed into its back and sent it lurching forwards. Reaching around in an effort to dislodge him as he dug his blades into every inch of exposed flesh that he could reach. Wedging them up under armor. Twisting them in flesh. Ripping and tearing with his claws for good measure whenever the chance to do so presented itself until the grabbing hands couldn’t be avoided any longer and Detheroc succeeding in ripping him free.

“Meddlesome- _argh!_ ” Struck broadside by the full force of a spell and with Shadowfire licking along its already bleeding wounds the Dread Lord dropped him and bared its teeth. Anduin, no longer in Shadow form and still unsteady on his feet but awake despite the Nathrezim’s best efforts, matched its glare with one of his own. “Enough! You can’t be allowed to take the Master by surprise: we’ll meet again, Son of the Wolf.”

“ _Don’t let him get away, Wrynn!”_ But it was already too late. The Dread Lord had disappeared.

Leaning on Iapetus to keep himself upright Anduin clunked across the room towards him, reaching down to help him up. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine; Dragons are quite durable and it would take much more than a brief bit of manhandling to actually injure me.” Wrathion dusted off his clothing. “You?”

“Fine.” Anduin wasn’t looking at him when he said it.

Following his gaze, Wrathion set his hand on the other’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. They disobeyed your orders. That was their choice.”

“That doesn’t make their fate deserved.” For a long time he continued to stare, then looked over at Wrathion and said somberly “it got away.”

“Yes.”

“You won.” That stare didn’t waiver. “By one bloody point. You _won_!”

The Black Prince blinked then, mind catching up with him, grinned. “I did indeed.” He said. “No need to worry, beloved. I’ll wait to collect until we’re somewhere that’s slightly less ruined.”

“I hate you.”

“No,” Wrathion said, “you don’t.”

“I think I do.”

“Are you pouting?”

“…No!”

“I think you are, beloved.”

Anduin folded his arms across his chest and wrinkled his nose. “Wrynn men do _not_ pout. We also don’t admit defeat.” The former King eyed him through his peripheral vision, fighting a grin. “This isn’t over.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Wrathion said. “I wouldn’t be opposed to continuing. Shall we say that the next one to lose has to make a strip tease?”

“That’s a bit of a step down from this one.”

“We can amend that later on.”

The grin broke free at last and Anduin, rolling his eyes, held out a hand. “Deal.” After they’d cemented the further future of their game, the smile slid once again from his face. His eyes falling back to the burned bodies the Dread Lord had left behind. “We’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do.” He said. “No point putting it off until the morning.”


	8. A Veiled Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Icey/elbrethali for the fan art

_Varian Wrynn had been a large man in every aspect of the word that much was undeniable: towering at almost seven feet with shoulders wide as the horizon; built like a bulwark with arms like an Orc’s and hands the size of bucklers. The Lion Seat of Stormwind had been built for just such a man, and Anduin Wrynn looked almost insubstantial atop it with his thin fingers and lissome frame. Even more so with the set of his posture, as if all the weight of the earth and sky had fallen without warning atop his shoulders._

_In a way, Tess supposed it had._

_“Anduin.” She set a hand on his shoulder gently; as if afraid her friend might shatter if too much force was used. He honestly looked as if that were a real possibility, though he was doing a valiant job of keeping himself from breaking down. It had been three weeks since the funeral but the throne room was still draped in black. “Are you alright?”_

_It was a stupid question and the minute it was out Tess cringed but it had the unexpected effect of making him look up at her and smile. It wasn’t the same smile she’d grown used to seeing but at least it was something. “My life just seems to be falling apart at the links.” He opened his hand, showing her the golden locket which sat in his palm and the broken chain coiled around it. “Of all the times my mother’s locket could have broken it had to be now. I’m starting to think that the universe is trying to tell me that I’ll never hold on to anything; that I’m cursed to lose everything I love.” That small smile became more morbidly amused. “Still want to marry me?”_

_She cuffed him lightly. “Oh, hush love. Chains can be repaired: I’m sure Ms. Denman will be perfectly capable of seeing to your locket’s needs and thrilled to be asked.”_

_“You’re right. I suppose I’m being a bit unreasonable.” Anduin pulled his shoulders back and though it corrected his posture it did nothing to make him look less burdened. “I’ll take the locket down to her myself later; I need the fresh air anyway.”_

It had been just over a week since the High King had gone missing; in desperate need of a new leader to look to and in large part due to his being the most forceful voice among the racial leaders regarding what to do next about the Horde if not the Legion her father had been selected to fill Anduin’s position in a ‘temporary’ capacity.

‘Temporary’. They’d said it as if putting forward the pretense that they could pull him back from the Twilight’s Hammer’s grip without themselves believing it was true. The repairs had finished and Tess had gone to pick it up herself; the Queen’s locket, contained in a narrow box, rested in the bag on her belt. Her hand weighed heavy on the door knob, the habit of knocking curling her fingers despite knowing there was no one there to answer.

He’d always laughed over her insistence at not barging in, at knocking first, despite being a Rogue: the class uniquely specialized in sneaking around and flippantly violating privacy. Had told her, on no uncertain terms, that she was welcome to come in at any time be it to use his mother’s powder table or simply for a social call. Doubting that had changed now that her friend was gone, Tess forced herself to turn the knob and push the door open.

Sunlight filtered quietly through the window, slanting between the heavy curtains and pooling on the stone floor in bright puddles. The bed was made, the sheets and gold and sapphire comforter smoothed into their proper places, though the pillows still had the vague imprint of having been slept on. The white and gold powder table stood in its usual place against the wall, not far from the end of the astoundingly simple writing desk.

Anduin had shockingly Spartan tastes for a royal, perhaps stemming from the fact he was a Priest. It had struck her as incredibly odd, when they’d first been getting to know each other, how uncomfortable the finery he was constantly surrounded by seemed to make Stormwind’s Crown Prince.

There were so many memories in this room. Almost too many. The after images lingering among the lights and shadows like ghosts. Words and laughter shared and spoken long ago still distantly audible from trading stories about their families and kingdoms; chattering about the Darkmoon Faire; commiserating about overly bull-headed Warrior fathers; confiding in each other the shared secrets of their forbidden preferences. Tess had asked him to cover for her on occasion while she snuck away to spend time with Lorna. Anduin had remarked, from time to time, on the attractiveness of a particular adventurer or guard and leaned on her after Wrathion had left him in pieces on the now cold bed.

Eyes on the desk’s top drawer she crossed the room and pulled it open. Sifting through the contents inside without a care for what they were until she found what she was looking for and pulled it out. The small key gleamed gold in the sun light, its relation to the locket in her bag plain. Removing the box and setting the key inside, she closed it and the drawer again and slipped back out of the room. Stepping back into the shadows of the hallway and skirting a couple of guards, aware she wasn’t doing anything wrong but simply preferring to avoid the potential for conversation. Clambering out through a window and vaulting down onto the city streets below just to cut short the journey properly walking out of the keep would have taken. Charting an immediate, thoughtless path towards the lookout point.

Below and to her left stretched the docks and the harbor. Great steam boats were docked off the ends of most of them, their armored sides gleaming in the sunlight as workers loaded on supplies and soldiers lined up on their decks in preparation for departure for any one of countless engagement points with the Legion or the Horde. Below and to her right was Lion’s Rest and the rebuilt park. The repairs had been seen to and now, had someone who didn’t know what had occurred seen it-not that there was anyone like that in existence-they’d never have known the monument had been damaged at all.

_I should have gone with him._ It was probably irrational but Tess couldn’t help but think that maybe, if Anduin hadn’t been alone, he wouldn’t have been carried off like a rabbit in an owl’s claws. That maybe together they could have taken on Wrathion and run him off if not brought him down. _The royal guard should have stayed with him._ They’d wanted to give him privacy to grieve, maybe he’d needed it, but it had been so stupid. So incredibly stupid when the Legion had already once infiltrated Stormwind and could have done so again. They’d willfully left their leader exposed and in a lot of ways deserved what had happened.

But Anduin didn’t.

For what felt like the hundredth time Tess wondered exactly what had happened. Had Anduin stood before his father’s empty coffin the same way Valeera was doing now, staring numbly at the stone as if expecting Varian to suddenly materialize out of it and assure them all he’d merely been wounded and that everything now would be perfectly fine? Had he bent over it and broken down; finally let go the emotions he’d been holding back? Had he stared out to sea and watched the moon rise over the water?

And what of the Dragon? Had he swooped in like a bird of prey and sailed off in the blink of an eye? Unlikely, as Anduin had managed to call for the guard. Had the Wyrm crashed down like a meteor and snatched him up, perhaps after a short struggle? Had he first appeared in mortal guise and spoken, playing on their past to distract the King enough to incapacitate him before he could call on the Light for aid?

Unable to take the questions any longer, the placid view of white stone and shining water which just didn’t seem to give a bleeding damn that the least deserving person on the face of Azeroth had suffered a terrible fate, she left the look out and descended into the park; approaching the staring Blood Elf from behind, taking care to make her footsteps loud enough that she wouldn’t mistakenly take her by surprise.

“Valeera.”

“You saw it? Last night?”

“The Aurora? I doubt anyone missed it who had a working pair of eyes.” It had been massive: a great strip of dancing green and purple which had dimmed the moon and stars with envy and left the air feeling strange. “I didn’t think they happened this far south. Even in Gilneas we never saw them.”

“That wasn’t an Aurora.” The other Rogue was still staring at the stone and looked mildly dazed. “It was feedback from a clash of powerful magic. Shadow and Fel I’d bet, by the colors.”

“Magic?” she repeated. “Are you sure?” As glowing green eyes turned on her Tess came to an abrupt, belated realization that Valeera would have been able to tell far better than any other non-Mage in the city whether or not it was Magic. She was a Blood Elf. “Your addiction-.”

“I’m fine.” Given the way she was currently looking Tess doubted that claim was more than half true. The other Rogue’s gaze shifted North. “He’s up there. The Twilight’s Hammer and the Legion were fighting last night. That’s the only explanation.”

“That isn’t Anduin.” No, if the Hammer had let him out of their sunken city than it was with their foul God puppeting his body. He was still in there, Wrynns were too stubborn and Anduin was too strong in the Light to just submit to some twisted monstrosity, but thinking running off to see him would end in anything but a vicious attack was a mistake.

“You don’t know that it isn’t!”

“I also don’t know that it is.” Tess said. “And neither do you.”

The daze had left her face entirely when she glared, expression made all the more severe by the length of her brows. “Why do you think I’m still here, Greymane?” her voice was sharp and bitter.

“What do you mean? Surely you can’t be intending to suggest you were considering running off to join the Hammer. What about the Uncrowned? What about the Alliance?”

The Elf let out a derisive snort. “The Alliance? The Horde? The Uncrowned? My allegiances are personal, Tess: to Varian and to his son.” Bitter anger shifted into bitter grief. She looked away. “And Varian is dead. Anduin is the one to whom my loyalty belongs. And if I find reason to suspect he’s still himself I’ll be at his side faster than you can say ‘for Gilneas’.”

“We both know you won’t find that proof.” Tess said. “Anduin would never stay with the Twilight’s Hammer. He wants an end to war not an end to the world. The best thing for him would be for us to get him back and try to get through to him.”

“But we’re doing nothing. Pulling him back may depend on how long it takes to get to him yet we’re sitting here waiting.” She said. “He’s to the North, maybe just miles away, and nothing’s being done.”

“As soon as things begin to let up with the Legion we’ll have more room to focus on him.” As much as they all wanted to get him back, as shaken as Kalecgos’ warning had left them, the leadership of the Alliance was currently either unable or unwilling to see even a free Old God as a greater threat than Sargeras. “Spymaster Shaw is on our side with this; if it ends up being something the Uncrowned has to take into our own hands we’ll at least have SI: 7’s backing.”

That didn’t appear to be much comfort. “Varian would have brought him back by now.” Valeera said. “We’re failing his memory along with his son.”

Tess couldn’t find it in herself to disagree. Legion or no Legion, Horde or no Horde, she agreed with the Blood Elf beside her. “We should see if there’s anything that we can do to lessen the load. It might move the Alliance’s focus onto the Hammer just that little bit faster.”

Valeera’s long blonde hair tumbled forwards into her face. “I hate doing nothing.”

That seemed to be the closest thing Tess would be getting to agreement. Not really able to be picky and tired of simply waiting herself, the Gilnean Princess was more than willing to take it. “Come on.” She said. “Let’s head over to SI: 7.”

The walk through the city towards Old District was subdued and made in silence. The citizens and patrolling guardsmen paid them little mind as they went, though whether that was because they’d begun to grow used to the sight of Valeera or if they were simply more concerned with the litany of other matters hanging over their heads was unclear.

Shaw was found in exactly the place they’d expected him to be, looking over a map of Duskwood with Renzik at his side and a dark look on his face. He looked up when they entered.

“Valeera. Princess Greymane.” He straightened from the posture he’d held leaned over the table. “Has something else happened?”

“No.” Tess told him. “We were actually hoping there was something we could do.”

Renzik over up at them, ears perking up. “You two have good timing.” He rasped. “Shaw here was just complaining about the recent lack of ‘pay-as-you-go’ labor now that most of those crazy adventuring types have run off to the Broken Isles. We’ve got a problem.”

“Renzik!”

“Oh, come on.” The Goblin said. “The adventurers are all out of dodge and all of SI: 7 are already dispatched on jobs they can’t be pulled away from. This has to be taken care of but I know you know better than to go running off alone.”

“They’re not SI: 7.”

“With all due respect now’s not the time to get tied up in protocol: Darkshire’s gone off the deep end and is crawling with Cultists!”

“The Twilight’s Hammer is in Duskwood?” Valeera very nearly leapt onto the table.

“No.” Shaw said, glaring briefly at his unrepentant second in command. “The Cult in Darkshire isn’t the Twilight’s Hammer. They’re connected to the Burning Legion and call themselves the ‘Veiled Hand’. We don’t know what they want but the entire Night Watch has joined them.”

“And you need someone to go with you in the effort of dispatching them.” Tess said. This was a better distraction than either of them could reasonably have hoped for: hopefully it wouldn’t transform into a massive headache. “Will we be leaving now or after you’ve finished with more of that ‘protocol’?”

The Spymaster made an admirable attempt at keeping a straight face but couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from curving upwards. For good measure he sent another glare at the Goblin who looked about as sorry as the cat that got the cream. “Get your Griffins and meet me in Goldshire. Say nothing to anyone.”

“I can already imagine what Andin would have to say about this, were he here.”

“So can I.” As they stepped down off the threshold of SI: 7 Headquarters Tess caught the briefest flash of a real smile on Valeera’s face. “’I understand the two of you are Rogues but is the cloak and dagger really necessary’?”

It would have been a joke, of course. Mostly. Tess sighed and shook her head. “For all he put forward the innocent façade you and I both know he has a good number of Rougish tendencies himself.” She said. “For one thing he certainly has a talent for slipping his guards. And when we first met he could throw a knife better than I could.”

“I taught him that.” Valeera sounded suddenly like a proud older sister. “That was the day Varian swore he’d never let me babysit again. Not that it was really babysitting seeing as Anduin was thirteen.”

“And he knows how to talk a person into doing what he wants.” They’d reached the steps up to the Flight Master’s post. “The only ‘Priestly’ thing about him, aside from the devotion to the Light of course, is the earnest desire to use that power for good instead of gain.”

“That and being a bit of a klutz. At least in his younger years.”

Tess raised an eyebrow. “Being uncoordinated is a Priestly thing?”

The Blood Elf’s snicker made her think she was missing the important middle pieces of a joke.

Shadowcrest hadn’t forgotten what had happened the last time she’d ridden him and, doubtlessly wanting no part of another long flight, the black Griffin eyed her warily as she approached. “I know and I’m sorry.” She told him, reaching out to pat his beak. Ebon feathers rustled. “We’re only going to Duskwood this time. I promise.”

After another long moment’s scrutiny the Griffin clicked his beak and heaved his body off the straw strewn floor, allowing her to pull herself up onto his back. Valeera had had no such problems convincing Anduin’s Griffin, Leto, who seemed quite eager for the chance to stretch her wings, to let her onto her back and watched the matter play out with an expression kept carefully controlled.

“He’d want her getting out once in a while.” She said, catching the other women’s questioning look. “Sterling too.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Tess said, unable to help but think that the snowy griffin looked oddly different without the blue and gold armor to denote it as belonging to a member of the royal family. “We should head over to Goldshire. Shaw is probably getting impatient by now.

The clawed eagle talons at the front of their mounts clicked against the sun bleached wood as the Griffin’s approached the opening of the aerie, spreading their wide wings and lifting off into the air; climbing between the statues which lined the Walk of Heroes and flying out across the emerald canopy of Elwynn Forest.

Even in the bright, bustling town of Goldshire the atmosphere was tense and the veneer of normalcy had worn thinner than wet paper. They found Shaw waiting for them behind Lion’s Pride Inn, the Golden Griffin he’d rode in on scratching at the dirt.

“There are two points of interest which need to be investigated and dismantled: the first being Darkshire itself and the second being Raven Hill.” The Spymaster informed them without preamble once they’d landed, mounting up himself. “You two will take the town as there’s more ground there than I could cover on my own. We’ll reconvene in that odd Night Elf grove in the middle of the area and determine our next move then.”

Climbing once more over the forest canopy they banked towards the south and glided out across the gleaming bend of the curving river. Below them the tree tops became scraggly and less well kept; the leaves tinted an odd grey color around bare branches which jutted up at odd angles. Shaw broke away to the East. Tess and Valeera banked west and continued onwards towards Darkshire, eventually dipping down below the trees.

Instantly it went from day to night and Tess found herself blinking rapidly in order to refocus her eyes as they struggled to adjust. Below them the stone path curved and undulated in much the same way the river had, lit on rare occasion by the brief glow of an intrepid lamp post though these were few and far between and quite a good number of them were broken. No one saw them as they swung wide around the town and landed along the graveyard path behind it.

“This doesn’t look good.” Valeera’s green eyes fluoresced in the dark, her gaze on the fallen body fully visible where it lay beside the fountain. “They’re preparing for something and slaughtered everyone who wouldn’t join their little group so they wouldn’t get in the way.”

“There may be survivors.” Though from the look of just what they could see that, admittedly, wasn’t very likely. “We should help them, if we can. While we put a stop to whatever it is this ‘Veiled Hand’ is planning. We should each take one half of the town and then the town hall together.”

“I’ve got the inn.” Valeera dropped down into the shadows below the protruding bluff and disappeared from sight. After pausing long enough to insure the Griffin’s wouldn’t be seen Tess followed.

Loose stone rubble had been scattered about on the path, likely in some half-baked attempt by the Cult to prevent themselves from being snuck upon. Tess easily avoided the pieces, her light leather shoes keeping her footsteps entirely silent as she slipped into the village.

The smell of blood was eye wateringly powerful and it was difficult to keep herself from gagging on it. The fountain was drained of water; the red stains smeared across the stones making it seem as if it had been used to store the blood of the murdered prior to it being taken elsewhere. Seeing a lit torch approaching she stepped over the corpse of an old woman, callously left to rot but there was nothing she could do for her or the others like her at that current moment, and headed towards the black smith’s building.

A member of the Night Watch stood guard outside the door but was easily dispatched with a stunning blow to the back of the head. Inside it smelled like soot and hot metal. Bones, stripped of flesh but still slick and grey in color as if cooked, sat stacked atop the anvil.

Her attention was so engrossed by the horrifying sight that she barely noticed the man running towards her until he’d swung a bloody cleaver at her head.

Dodging the blow at the last possible moment, off-balanced by surprise, Tess tumbled back. Catching herself and drawing her blades from her belt as the man turned towards her. Tall and broad in a red splattered apron his eyes were so wide that the whites were visible and his nostrils flared like those of a bull prepared to charge. Bald head gleaming with sweat.

“More bones for the Legion!” He swung again. Meaty fist whizzing artlessly through the air. Tess side stepped and lunged. Severing the tendons of his inner elbow with a swift slice of her dagger. The man roared in pain, the cleaver falling with a thud from now worthless fingers. She didn’t give him the chance to recover and buried both blades in his chest. His heavy body fell like a tree.

With little time to spare and not knowing how else to render them useless to the Cult Tess opened the burning forge and tossed the bones inside before slipping out through the back door. The sudden change in temperature raised goosebumps along her skin but she ignored the discomfort. Darting around another member of the Night Watch on patrol, Tess headed for the inn.

Valeera was waiting for her in the deep shadows to the right of the Red Raven’s entrance. “Did you find anything?”

“Bones.” She said. “You?”

“Blood. And a ritual circle which I took the time to stamp into oblivion.” Valeera looked her over. “Of course you’re the one who finds the action.”

“I’d have gladly traded ‘stamping out a ritual circle’ for ‘crazy cleaver man’ if I could have.” Tess told her shortly. “Come on, we need to clear the town hall. I’m sure we’ll run into something there.”

“I’m sure.”

They moved back across the square and up the stairs of the town hall, skirting the guards they could and stunning the ones they couldn’t. Inside, they found a small gathering of seated civilians listening to a diatribe from Althea Ebonlocke. Tess glanced quickly at Valeera who nodded and both began creeping forward along either wall.

“It’s all in place, my brothers and sisters. Just as soon as the Master’s representative arrives, a bit of a delay, we’ll begin the effort of sending Stormwind crashing to the ground.” Hands on both sides of the pulpit she leaned forward, eager. That same madness Tess had seen in the man at the blacksmith’s on her face. “It won’t be long now.”

Valeera had pulled herself up onto the railing to Ebonlocke’s left, poised to pounce. Climbing the short set of stairs Tess circled around until she had a clear shot at the Night Watch Commander’s undefended back. Neither one of them were specialized assassins but between the two of them she had little doubt the fight wouldn’t last long.

As if by silent command they both sprang at once, crashing into the Commander from two directions and sending both her and the pulpit she’d been leaning on to the ground with a shriek and a crash. The civilians leapt from their chairs and took flight like frightened deer but they weren’t her concern. Blood was everywhere, on the floor and on her clothes, and Tess couldn’t tell whose blade had gone where. Only that it was over.

Blonde hair shot through with streaks of red, Valeera vaulted back over the wooden railing and landed with a thump on the other side. “Shaw should be finished with Raven Hill by now.” She said. “We should head out to meet him. How far away is that grove?”

“Not very.” Tess said, circling around the end of the railing and climbing back down the stairs. “I saw it on the way in. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

But she was right. They’d done all they could there and it was better not to linger.

Back above the scraggly tree line, in the light of the late day sun, it was harder to smell the blood. For that much she was grateful.

Twilight Grove was precisely what the name implied: a massive grove with a single towering tree, inset with a swirling gate way, growing in the middle which was steeped in such shadow it always appeared as if on the cusp of evening. As she dismounted Shadowcrest’s back, Tess was struck by how similar it all looked to Darnassus and couldn’t help but wonder how it had gotten there and what it was for.

“Darkshire give you trouble?” Shaw straightened from the crouched position he’d held while examining the portal’s stone archway. His movements were oddly stiff.

“Nothing terrible.” Valeera said. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s not something you need to worry about, Sanguinar.” The Spymaster dismounted the platform and walked towards them. Footsteps hissing in the grass. “You thwarted their ritual?”

Tess nodded grimly. “You ran into the Legion’s ‘representative’?”

“It wasn’t a representative of the Legion they were receiving at Raven Hill. Not directly.” He held up a black emblem in the shape of a Hammer, a thin crust of blood dried along one edge. “It was a high ranking member of the Twilight’s Hammer calling himself the ‘Voice of Al’gothoth’. They’re working for the Legion alongside the Veiled Hand though to precisely what end I can’t be sure. And that’s not the worst news.”

“What could be worse?” though, really, it could be a blessing in disguise. If the Twilight’s Hammer was now an arm of the Legion attacking them was attacking the Legion; there was no longer reason to hold off for the sake of focusing elsewhere.

“The King is dead.” Said without inflection, altogether too business like for her comfort. It was strange, but the swooping horror of the revelation overcame her misgivings before they could truly be acknowledged. “The Hammer member was all too pleased to tell me everything about how the _thing_ they worship devoured his heart before taking his body for its own. There is no getting him back.” The muted thud of Valeera’s knees hitting the ground was the only sound in the stunned silence which followed. Her sobs short and harsh, made through clenched teeth. Shocked at the Spymaster-he was usually blunt, sure, but this reached more into the realms of lack of empathy-Tess glared but the silent chastisement had no effect. “We’re returning to Stormwind. There’s nothing more to do here.”

“I’m not going back.” Valeera’s voice was ferocious, muffled behind the hand she’d clamped over her mouth. Her hair hung over her face in lank curtains and her ears were pinned back in despair.

“What?” Tess blurted. Shaw had no input, walking away towards the Golden Griffin which hissed and tried to back away. “What do you mean you’re not going back?”

“I’m not going back.” She repeated it even harsher than before. “There’s nothing for me in Stormwind anymore. There’s nothing for me anywhere.”

“Valeera, that isn’t-.”

“Go, Greymane!” She snapped it viciously enough to make Tess jump. “Just leave me alone.”

She’d have to find some way to get another letter to Broll, and soon. Hopefully the Druid would be able to talk some sense back into her. For now, she supposed it was better to give her the necessary space to grieve. Tess herself would have very much liked to curl up into a ball and come to terms with the loss of her friend but she knew that she couldn’t. Anduin was with the Light now, with his father, and it was now their job to end the threat his body was being used to pose.

Nodding, she stepped back. “Alright.” She said, watching the Blood Elf continue to struggle against breaking down. “Just…remember you can come back Valeera. Don’t do anything stupid.” She received no reply. Without turning her back on the other, half expecting her to suddenly change her mind, Tess returned to where she’d left Shadowcrest. “I’ll leave Leto with you …in case you change your mind. And…here.” Removing the boxed locket from her bag, she set it in the grass between them. “I think, out of all of us, he’d want you to have this the most.”

When there was, again, no response Tess pulled herself up onto her Griffin’s back and left the Twilight Grove behind. Banking North back towards Stormwind City.


	9. The Prince's Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fanart on this chapter.

When the Shattering had happened and the Forsaken had plague-bombed Southshore into non-existence she’d had nowhere to go but Ravenholdt Manor where Fahrad had graciously opened the doors of the Guild to her. She’d been there when they’d stolen the Black Prince’s uncorrupted egg from the talons of the Red Flight at Vermillion Redoubt. She’d been there when Wrathion had hatched. She’d been there when Fahrad had turned out to be a Dragon himself and when he’d attacked the Black Prince she’d helped to bring him down. When Wrathion had left Alterac Mountains for parts unknown she’d gone with him, collecting other members of the organization which would soon become known as the Black Talons and rising alongside the Orc she only knew as Left to the rank of the Last of the Blackflight’s personal body guard. She’d stayed with him in the Tavern of the Mists and watched his dealings with the heroes of both Factions and the Alliance’s Prince. Watched him fall in love and leverage more and more of his support behind the Alliance. Watched his anger over Varian Wrynn’s failure to do as expected and his dealings with Kairoz and his grief over the coming betrayal of the older Prince even as he’d only drawn him closer.

When Wrathion had run off to Alternate Draenor with Kairoz and Garrosh in his misguided attempt to raise an army with which to rebuke the Legion she and Left had both gone with him and together they’d faced the perils of that world and the hunt for them which both Factions had engaged in. And when Wrathion had gone back to Azeroth in shame to attempt to salvage the scraps of his plan and put forward at least some resistance against Sargeras they’d both returned as well.

The Black Prince had remained static for less than a month before vanishing again, only this time he didn’t take them with him. Didn’t tell them where he’d run off to. Didn’t leave even the vaguest hint of where he was going or why. They’d been abandoned, and the feeling left behind by that knowledge had been an oddly potent mix of a tool which had been cast aside, left devoid of purpose, and a mother who had last her child. Close as they’d inevitably become, she hadn’t known if Left had felt the same when they’d parted ways: with the Black Talons in shards and the Black Prince gone, as much as they’d have liked to stay together, it simply wasn’t tenable. Left had returned to Orgrimmar. Right had briefly considered seeking shelter in Stormwind before discarding the idea for fear the Prince might recognize her and attempt to retaliate against Wrathion by proxy-gentle nature or no, one never knew what scorn could drive someone to do-and had simply set to drifting. Doing whatever job she came across for a bit of coin. Stealing what she needed and couldn’t buy.

And then the Legion had come and news had fallen from the sky with the Infernals. Failure at the Broken Shore. Varian Wrynn and Vol’jin dead. Sylvanas the new Warchief. Anduin Wrynn kidnapped. And just when she’d been convinced the world had gotten as mad as it possibly could it happened: the blood gem had gone off. The Black Prince’s call issued from the Twilight Highlands, and without a second thought she’d gone. Riding on the back of a stolen Griffin she’d made the day’s long journey up from the Bad Lands with only brief stops in between.

She’d heard reports that the Highlands, once seat of the Twilight’s Hammer under Deathwing and Cho’gall, had been one of the first places taken over by the Legion when they’d first crashed down on Azeroth. Apparently those reports had been correct. _Had been._

The land was cracked and scarred, torn by a ferocious battle and drenched in so much Felblood that the ground couldn’t absorb it all; puddles stood inches deep in places. There were bodies and bits of broken technology everywhere though not as much as there had been earlier, thanks to the industrious work of the massive tentacled monsters ferrying the corpses to blazing pyres which stained the sky with soot. The Black Prince had specifically ordered speed over secrecy, so despite her misgivings at the sight of the Drakes pin wheeling like vultures above the pointed spire of the Bastion of Twilight she resisted the urge to take refuge in the shadows and make the rest of the journey on foot.

Despite the recently excised presence of the Legion in the area the towering tree in the middle of Vermillion Redoubt still stood all but intact. Just ahead, coming in from the west, a wyvern mounted figure touched down among the rocks. Pulling on the Griffin’s reigns, Right followed it down.

“So you got the summons as well.” Left didn’t bother with reintroductions; the fact that she was talking at all was the only sign needed to know her fiend was happy to see her.

“Of course,” she dismounted the less than pleased Griffin and swiftly stepped out of its reach. “I doubt the Black Prince would ever only summon one of us.”

“It may not be the Black Prince who was behind this.” Left said. “Coming in you must have seen the same thing that I did: the Twilight’s Hammer not only still exists, but still exists in enough force to route the Legion. The Black Prince may be strong but he’s only a whelp and he was alone: he could have been accosted and had the Master Gem stolen.

“To what end?” though she had to admit that what the other woman was saying echoed her own concerns.

“The Twilight’s Hammer are said to be gibbering. Who can say for what reason?” She said. “Even if we do find the Black Prince himself to be responsible its better we were cautious than caught out.”

“You’re right.” Right said, stepping into the shadows. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see we haven’t allowed ourselves to become complacent in his absence.”

The once outpost of the Red Dragonflight looked almost exactly as she remembered it having been years prior, only without the Dragons. Aside from the distant crackling of thunder and the occasional breath of wind the place was unnaturally quiet and still. Perhaps it was the recent mass death which had occurred in the surrounding area, perhaps it was the Cult’s return, but whatever the reason for it was it raised the hairs along her arms. Inside the hollow trunk of the massive central tree, seated on one of the stones which made up a small fairy ring and looking just the same as always but for the absence of his turban, was Wrathion; fully aware of their presence the Black Prince looked over at them and grinned.

“You made good time, not that I expected anything different from the best of my Black Talons.” He said. “Please come have a seat. I’m told that I have some explaining to do.”

“With respect,” though Left’s tone was only barely respectful, “you do.”

Right couldn’t help but wonder who it was who’d told him that and what they were to him that would lead him to actually comply. The rock she sat on was uneven and cold.

“Had things not been as dire as they were I’d have acted differently. After everything we’ve been through together you must surely believe that.” He said. “The Legion’s shadow loomed over Azeroth and while all eyes turned towards it the Lord of Slumber moved to win his freedom. N’zoth had undermined C’thun and Yogg’saron during the Cataclysm and the Hammer had enacted a plan to use a Mortal’s body to slip the Titan’s chains. I knew I couldn’t stop it with the momentum it had gathered, so I instead inserted myself into their plan in order to…ensure a favorable outcome: the creation of a new Shath’yar that _wouldn’t_ want to destroy the planet. In return for being aged forward into a Wyrm, I provided the Mortal they would need and threw a wrench into things. Everything has fallen into place with that matter now so it’s no longer a concern.”

Left looked categorically unimpressed. “And just who was this ‘wrench’?” she asked. “Because I certainly hope that it wasn’t the missing King of Stormwind who was supposedly carried off by a Black Dragon.”

“Well…oh, hello beloved. You’re here early.”

“’Hello beloved’ indeed.” Though the darkness of the inner tree made it difficult to make out features, the voice of the man in the doorway-slightly deeper than it had been when he’d been fifteen-was instantly recognizable. “At least your body guards have good sense. Shame none of it managed to rob off on you through exposure.”

“My ‘sense’ is perfectly good on its own.”

“Most of the Hammer would soundly agree with that statement.” Anduin said. “Which isn’t encouraging as most of them aren’t sound.”

“Sound enough to listen to you on the field of battle.”

“Their listening to me has more to do with them being fanatically devoted Cultists, Wrathion.” Fabric rustled as he made a slight shift in position. “I’m pretty sure the first rule in the ‘Culting for Dummies’ handbook is ‘do as thine God commands’ and thanks to your poorly thought out but miraculously successful plan that ‘God’ happens to be me.”

“Give me more credit, Anduin, please.” The Black Prince drawled. “Have they stopped drinking yet?”

“No.”

“Have you had any yet?” Right couldn’t help but think his tone was slightly over interested. “I’d like to know if you can still get drunk.”

“We can find that out on the day I can use Gul’dan’s skull as a goblet.” Chittering vitriol underlay those words, spat at the wall like a mouthful of acid. Left and Right exchanged a wary glance which spoke volumes.

“My dear, I’m not certain there will be enough skull left to drink out of once you’re through with him.” Wrathion’s voice had taken on a gentle tone. The smaller male huffed in response.

“…King Wrynn?” Left ventured, wary. “I’m not certain how best to address you.”

“Calling me by my name instead of ‘Master’ or ‘my Lord’ would be a welcome start. I’m no longer a King so formality isn’t necessary.”

A drawn out pause. Right and Wrathion were both looking at her in various degrees of confusion. Anduin continued staring at the wall. “I was at the Broken Shore.” She finally seemed to settle on. “It was madness. Despite what you might have heard, we did not conspire to abandon the Alliance. For what it may be worth, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I didn’t blame the Horde.” When he finally turned to look at them, those unnatural eyes sweeping over her like a cold wind, Right nearly leapt out of her skin. “And I’m sorry too. As Gul’dan soon will be.” Shifting his gaze to Wrathion, he said “you’re ready? Or are we waiting on the rest of the Black Talons that might answer?”

“I’ve only called Left and Right for now,” Wrathion said. “There’s no need to make you wait longer than necessary when you’re already chomping at the bit. We’re off to Mogu’shan?”

Anduin shook his head. “We should go to the Dread Wastes first. Once everything is in place to bring my father back I won’t have the focus for anything else.” She must have made some motion, some startled twitch, because his head whipped around and the next thing Right knew those eyes were running her through. “Is it a crime to want my family?” his tone was cold and defensive and in no way lined up with the Prince from years before.

“No, beloved.” Wrathion had no hesitance in approaching the agitated Priest. Right stiffened and, out of the corner of one eye, saw Left do the same. When he rested a hand on his shoulder Anduin leaned into him and tucked his face against the side of the Black Prince’s neck. “She doesn’t know your plans like I do. Its natural her first assumption would be undeath: that _is_ a terrible crime.”

“But I’m not planning for that.”

“I know, dear one.” Gently, Wrathion ran his hands along the once Human’s back. “Hush now.”

“I’ve brought him back before.”

That revelation seemed to take the Dragon somewhat by surprise and for a moment his motions faltered, but he recovered quickly and dropped his face into the other’s hair. “And you’ll be able to do so again just as soon as we have a new body for him. You’ve been reading?” Anduin nodded. “You have a plan?”

“I’d like to think so.” He pulled back. “I’ll tell you once we’ve gotten around to enacting it. We’ve kept Caliona and Noxian waiting outside for long enough: they’re not exactly patient, though Zeryxia says they’re better than Valiona and Theralion were.”

“Which one did you ride in on?” Wrathion’s voice had taken on a surly tone.

“It was a twenty minute flight and you wanted time to speak with them alone.” He said. “I’m not going to justify you getting snippy just because I rode on someone else’s back.”

“You at least have to admit that I’m the better flyer.”

“Light and Void, Wrathion.” Shaking his head, Anduin turned and started back up the tunnel leading out of the tree. Grumbling about Drakes and boundaries the Black Prince followed him up.

There was too much she wanted to say at once, so all Right ended up saying was “it looks like his leg is fine.”

“The way that he moves in unnatural.” Left said. “His eyes are unnatural. And so is what he plans to do. What the Black Prince has already done.”

The hollow, glacial gaze of nightshade eyes. Right shuddered. “What can we do, Left? Something tells me that Wrynn’s state isn’t reversible.”

“We stick around to pull the Black Prince out if things go badly,” the Orc said, starting up the tunnel as well. “And we hope that they don’t.”

Clouds had encroached on the sky while they’d been inside the tree and it looked as if it might rain at any moment. Anduin, bemused and leaning on his staff, was watching Wrathion glare at a pair of disguised Drakes who were making a point of looking at the sky. When he looked over at the sound of their footsteps it was with the earnest, open face of the Prince from the Tavern but when he smiled his mouth was full of fangs. “Wrathion forgot to ask you something.”

Oh, so he was the one who’d told the Black Prince that he had some explaining to do. That made a lot of sense.

Wrathion, hearing this, turned his head sharply. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“Blasted Mind Vision!” With a flourish the Dragon brought a hand to his chest. “I feel like you don’t trust me, Anduin.”

“Do I trust you to admit your own failings outside of situations of extreme duress? No. I can’t say I do.”

The Black Prince’s pout was brief and something both Rogues knew better than to mention. “Very well, then. Since you’re so worried about ensuring others aren’t forced into things I’ll ask them now. Do try to pay attention, Anduin, so that you remember this in the future.”

The former King rolled his odd toned eyes in response.

“I do not work for the Twilight’s Hammer but, through Anduin being my Consort, I am closely affiliated with them. You would still work for me, but the Black Talons would ostensibly be an arm of the Twilight’s Hammer: their answer to SI: 7 and the Shattered Hand. Knowing this, do you still wish to remain in my employ? If not, we part ways here.”

“You’d let us go even after what we’ve seen?” Right looked at Anduin, not Wrathion, when she said this.

“I’m not a monster, no matter how much I may now look like one.” Wrathion’s hiss in response to this statement went ignored. “And nothing you’ve seen won’t be out already, out soon, or easily guessed at. Especially seeing as that Dread Lord got away.” Almost to himself, Anduin muttered “so many places that bloody thing could be hiding. And none of them good.”

“Catching up with Detheroc is low on our list of priorities.”

“I know,” Anduin said, “but it still doesn’t sit well. At the very least I hope he had the courtesy to tell Gul’dan that the Wolf will soon be beating down his door.”

“It’s Rafa’s medallion that’s got you so bothered?”

“You don’t steal from the dead. Even Demons should have the decency to know better.” He said. “I think they have an answer for you; we can discuss this further later.”

“What else is there for us to do but stay?” Left said. “We’re Black Talon.”

“We’ve been through everything else with you, your majesty.” Right said. “Why not this: what’s one more misadventure?”

“Let’s hope it’s not a misadventure.” Wrathion said as another burst of thunder split the air. He and Anduin joined the Drakes in looking up. “Let’s head to Townlong before we get drenched.”

“Good idea.” He said. “Fill them in on why Caliona and Noxian are here while I open the Rift.”

“Leave the mounts you flew in on wherever you landed; you won’t be needing them anymore.” Wrathion informed them. “They wouldn’t have been able to keep up with me anyway. The Drakes will take you.”

Using some form of Dark Magic the Shadow Priest had torn a hole in the air in front of them and disappeared through it, followed immediately by the Twilight Drakes. Seeing their alarm, the Black Prince smile.

“No need to worry, this method of travel is just as safe as using a Mage Portal.” He headed through as well.

“I’ve heard horror stories about Mage Portals.” Right grumbled. “That sometimes people come out with their arms where their legs were and their legs where their arms were.”

“Better that than soaking wet.”

Travel through the Rift had to be the most unpleasant thing she’d ever experienced, a title which had formerly belonged to the Time Anomaly Kairoz had used to drag them into Alternate Draenor. Right almost lost her balance when the ground suddenly reappeared beneath her and it was only her reflexes which saved her from pitching head first into a mist-choked chasm of thorns.

“Hmm.” Balanced precariously atop the thick protrusion of a thorny vine, the former King of Stormwind peered down into the white nothing. “Seems I made a mild miscalculation: it’s a good thing I haven’t started messing around in the Nightmare yet.”

“Well, you know what they say about practice.” Wrathion was clearly fighting back a smirk.

“Yes, well, we should be here for long enough for the Hammer to finish at least the most important repairs and renovations.” Anduin said. “Provided we’re not immediately chased off by a swarm.”

“Would Wolf’s Den be among those ‘important renovations’?” Anduin grumbled something but didn’t otherwise respond. “Lazarus has already formed a sect, you do realize that? Don’t be shocked if we get back and find out they’ve started dressing up like wolves.”

“At this point, I’ve learned to expect something every time I turn around Wrathion. Finding out some of them dressed up as wolves, even if that means all they’re wearing is a pelt, isn’t the worst things we could possibly come back to.” He said, and then looked over at them. “You don’t mind jumping, do you? If they land I think this branch would break.”

Right was inclined to agree with that assumption. The Drakes were hanging just over their heads, their maul-tipped tails swinging lazily from side to side to keep their balance. “No,” she seized the tail of the nearest one and wrapped her legs around it to hold herself in place against the slick scales, “we don’t mind.”

“Watch it, Mortal!” So it was Noxian, then. The Drake continued to grumble mutinously as she pulled herself up onto his back. Caliona didn’t appear any further pleased by Left’s means of mounting up.

The Black Prince calmly leapt off the bow and shifted forms in a puff of smoke. When last they’d seen him he’d still been a whelp, little larger than a dog, but now he dwarfed both Drakes by a considerable margin. With what almost amounted to a practiced ease, Anduin grabbed one of the spines on his shoulder and swung his body up onto his back.

“Shall we try out luck?”

“I say we shall.” Wrathion said, beginning to rise higher. “What do you say to walking straight up to their palace’s front door?”

“Under normal circumstances I’d call it a death wish,” Anduin said, “but now I think its better we gauge their response in an environment that isn’t confined.”

“Gods don’t sneak around for insects.” Noxian snarled. “Approach them directly and crush them if they fail to recognize what you are, Master.”

“We’ll only kill if we’re attacked.” Anduin said. “There’s no point in needlessly stamping out a civilization.”

The Drakes made disgruntled noises but said nothing else.

The hollowed out trunk of the fallen tree which made up Dusklight Bridge fell below them as they emerged from the chasm. The Dread Wastes stretched ahead of them: a sprawl of greys and purples which, though still not pleasant to look at, was now free of the Sha though the scars of corruption were still visible. A fractured skin of clouds formed a crenulated ceiling above their heads but shafts of sunlight still managed to filter through in places.

Built into the trunk of a great kypari tree from stone and amber was the palace of the Mantid, known just years before as the ‘Heart of Fear’. Their arrival was not unwatched-at least forty armed and armored bug-men, far too many for her comfort, Right hated insects, watched them land-but no moves were made to accost them. Not even after they’d dismounted and the three Dragons had resumed their smaller forms. For what seemed like an eon they stood there on the stairs, wedged between the Mantid below them and the two massive guards astride the palace doors, with only the sounds of chittering mouth parts and thin wings. It wasn’t until Right actually thought she might lose her mind that Anduin spoke.

“If they were going to attack us,” he said, “they’d have done it by now: Mantid don’t have a reputation for being hospitable. And I don’t think they’re going to say anything either.”

“No, it doesn’t seem that way.” Wrathion said. “That may change once we’re inside; it’s possible their new Empress is attempting to lure us into a trap.”

“It’s possible.” Considering the fact that he said it as he was walking up the stairs Anduin didn’t seem particularly bothered by that possibility. She might have stopped to wonder just how powerful he’d become if that was the case if she wasn’t quite so busy trying _not_ to think about compound eyes.

The brief look Wrathion sent them was a familiar command: be on your guard.

It was a shame pulling down her cross bow would likely be considered a threat.

Everything inside the Mantid’s palace was purple and orange, the inner doorways peaked and inlaid with glowing panes of amber. The poles from which their banners hung from were topped in abstract sculptures of Mantid and the Pale blue fabric, adorned with the silhouette of the Empress in gold, rippled faintly in the occasional drafts of wind which moved through the building.  Golden pillars and soaring buttresses filled the wide chambers which they walked through, the Mantid doing nothing more than blocking the doorways they weren’t meant to use.

After passing far too many bugs they finally arrived in the throne room and were confronted with the sight of an _even bigger bug_. The Empress of the Mantid rose up from her throne on four barbed legs and clicked across the tiled floor.

“We had thought the Old Ones imprisoned or fallen, like Yshaarj, at the hands of the usurpers.” She said. “What have you come here for and why do you have that pitiful mammalian form?”

“All of the Shath’yar, the Old Ones as you call them, which lived during the time of the Titan’s arrival were imprisoned or killed yes. I’m a bit more recent than that.” Anduin did well in presenting a businesslike expression. “This is my preferred form, though I do have another body which is more in line with what I’m sure you’d expect. As I could actually die from wounds inflicted to it, this one is a safer bet for use.”

“You have strange tastes.” The Empress’ mandibles clicked. “A form more like that of my people would be far superior.”

The indulgent smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps.” He said. “As for why I’ve come here, it was because I seek to expel the Burning Legion from this world and finally establish a lasting equilibrium. To achieve this I need an army and the technology of your people makes you an attractive addition. And with Yshaarj’s final demise it would seem your people could benefit from a new God.”

Jointed talons flexed in the low light. “In times of old we were great. Yshaarj was the greatest of your kind and held the most land and under him we prospered. When the usurpers came that all tumbled down and now we are here; still great, but only a shadow of what once was. As the Sha were only a shadow of him.” Anduin met the Mantid’s horrid gaze with his own, unflinching despite the fact that the Empress dwarfed him eight times over. “But you say you want peace upon this world. My people, Old One, require war. Without it, the swarm does no mature. If peace exists, we do not.”

He bowed his head. “Of that much, Empress, I’m aware. The peace I most desire is between the mortal factions of Alliance and Horde: the Twilight’s Hammer does not wish to interfere with the life cycle of your people. And as much as I detest the thought of suffering, what the swarm puts the Pandaren through each century is not without need. That much I can accept.” He said. “Concessions and compromises can be made in return for a pledge of the loyalty of your people, at least so long as you’re their ruler. I only ask we be extended permission to remain within your lands during that period. You’ve my word we’ll cause no trouble.”

Those awful bulging eyes considered them for another drawn out moment before the Empress settled herself back on her throne. “The Klaxxi shall receive you, Old One, and your pets at Klaxxi’vess.” Wrathion’s effort to suppress a pointed comment was visible in the set of his shoulders. “If you can find a way into our sleeping chambers you’re welcome to use them.”


	10. Kings of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fan art on this chapter: we get to see Wrathion's Dragon form and it looks amazing. Thanks again to Icey: her deviant art is elbrethali

_The summer night was warm and clear, and the soft trickle of water and singing of crickets made everything seem peaceful but Anduin knew better. This was nothing but the calm before the storm ad that storm, as evidenced by Katrana’s choice to abscond rather than impart her own discipline, was going to be bad. He knew that his father was less than pleased with him, knew that the man’s temper wasn’t something he was always capable of reigning in, and that knowledge made the thought of walking across the green towards him to receive the verdict of his punishment a truly terrifying prospect. Maybe he could just sneak away and-._

_“Anduin!” The nine year old jumped and ducked behind the nearest pillar to hide. “Come here.”_

_He wasn’t yelling but his tone was incredibly stern and brokered no argument: it was the tone he used to give orders to soldiers and Anduin had never heard it used against him before. Forcing his feet to move, the young Prince edged out from around the pillar and started forward. Making halting progress across the grass until he reached his father’s side._

_Only when he was standing beside him, half-cowering and prepared to be yelled at, did Varian look down. It seemed as if the very spirit of all that was a chastising father was in his grey-blue eyes. “I am very disappointed in you.” He growled. “Kobolds may not be of any threat to a man but you’re still a child! What were you thinking; you could have been killed!”_

_“I was trying to help the miners. To help our people.” Anduin hung his head; unable to bare the force of those eyes any longer. He got so little time with his father and knowing he’d upset him when he’d tried to make him proud was incredibly painful. “I was just trying to be brave. Like you are.”_

_Stern disappointment shifted into something sad. “I’m only brave when I have to be.” He said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “A brave man does what he must to protect those whom depend on him and whom he loves. A stupid man looks for trouble. And I know that you’re not the makings of a stupid man, Anduin.”_

_No, he wasn’t stupid. Wouldn’t become stupid. But he was also nothing like his father. Nothing like what Stormwind needed as a King. “But you’re not scared of anything.” He sniffled, fighting back tears. “You’re not scared of anything and I’m trying to teach myself not to be a coward.”_

_Varian sighed and lowered himself onto one knee. Anduin still refused to look at him. “You really think I’m not afraid?”_

_“When was the last time you’ve ever been scared?”_

_“Today.” It somehow managed to be both forceful and gentle._

_The Prince dared a brief glance upwards with shining eyes. “Really?”_

_“Yes.” His father said. “I thought I might lose you, Anduin. You’re the only family I have left and you mean the world to me. You know that.” He received a meek nod in response. Reaching out, Varian slipped a finger beneath his son’s chin and tipped his head up so that their eyes met. “See? Even Kings, even **I** , get scared. Fear doesn’t make you a coward, Anduin. It makes you wise.”_

_“You were really scared?” his father nodded. Anduin nodded in return, reaching up to wipe away the beginning of unshed tears. “I guess we’re both wise, then?”_

_Varian chuckled. “I suppose.”_

_“You know what?”_

_“What?”_

_Anduin looked wildly around as if afraid they’d be overheard then motioned with one, small hand for his father to lean closer. Holding back a laugh in the face of his son’s serious expression, Varian indulged him and felt thin fingers gently grasp the shell of his ear to keep him there. In a low, conspiratorial whisper the Prince informed him “I bet those Kobolds were even **more** scared.”_

_“I’d bet,” the King grinned, pulling back enough to coil down in preparation for a playful pounce, “and you know why?”_

_Innocent blue eyes fixed him in a questioning look. “Why?”_

_“Because nobody messes with your dad.” He was going easy, but even then his training and experience rendered him far too quick for his son to avoid. Anduin shrieked with surprised laughter as Varian lifted him off the grass and began to madly ruffle his hair. Squirming in his father’s grip until the King took mercy and let him to slip free, pretending to flee in fear from his son’s retribution before allowing Anduin’s pounce to bring him to the ground. After an overly dramatic wrestling match in which Varian gave only the barest illusion of putting up a fight, not wanting to hurt him, the King found himself pinned to the grass with the Prince draped across his chest._

_“I love you.” His son’s voice was muffled in the fabric of his shirt._

_“I love you too.”_

_For a long moment they lay together in the grass, the Prince listening to the lulling sounds of the crickets and his father’s heartbeat, then he propped his chin up on Varian’s chest and looked up at him urgently. “We’ll always be together, right?”_

_The King’s answer was not immediate, his scarred face for a moment looking stricken before settling into something somber. “Anduin,” he said heavily, “I’m going to tell you something that my father told me. Many years ago, now. Will you listen?”_

_“Yes.” Anduin said, sitting up along with him and resting his head against his father’s shoulder._

_“Look at the stars.” Varian said, and together they did just that. “Do you know what they are?” his son shook his head. “Those are the eyes of the great Kings of the past. Looking down on us and keeping us safe.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“But the Holy Church says that when people die they go into the Light.” Anduin said. “How can they be the stars if they’re…is that why they glow?”_

_Varian again reached up to ruffle the Prince’s hair, his hand easily able to wrap around Anduin’s entire head. “In the future, when you’re the one who sits on Stormwind’s throne, should you ever feel alone I want you to remember that they will always be there to guide you.” His father’s gaze was the saddest it had been in a long time and when he spoke again his voice was thick. “And so will I.”_

The wind in the Dread Wastes was not the same as it had been in Stormwind that night. Colder. Its hiss higher in tone as it moved through the tall grass. The stars overhead were different, the constellations unfamiliar. Visible through a crack in the clouds was a particularly bright blue star, twinkling far above his outstretched palm. Out of reach, no matter how hard he tried to or how far he stretched.

“Was it true?” he asked the star, fully expecting to receive no answer. “Are you really there? Are you really watching?”

Another hand appeared in his line of vision, clawed sable fingers wrapping around his own in a gentle grip. “This sounds ominous.” Wrathion’s red eyes glowed in the darkness. “Who are you talking to, dear one?”

“No one.” Anduin said. “Myself.” As the Black Prince lowered himself onto the grass beside him, the Priest dropped his arm and sat up. “Just a stupid memory. A story a father told a child he believed not yet old enough to confront the reality that his death would leave him alone without guidance.”

“You’re not alone. And you’re not without guidance. And in another few hours you’ll have your father back so stop this.” Wrathion ran his thumb in smooth circles along the back of his hand. “This past week with the Mantid has been informative. I’ve learned many things-getting stuck in amber isn’t pleasant; Kypari sap tastes vile; Right has a profound dislike for compound eyes-and we’ve come to a solid agreement with them. They will serve you and tomorrow we’ll move on to the Veil of Eternal Blossoms.”

“Kypari sap isn’t that bad. The only real problem with it, aside from how sticky it is, is that it’s rather insubstantial as a source of food for anything other than a Mantid.”

“You’ve a much greater sweet tooth than I do, Anduin.” Wrathion said. “I’m interested to know what this ‘story’ your father told you was.”

“Keep in mind that I was nine and had just asked him whether or not we’d always be together.” Anduin could clearly remember the horrified expression which had flashed across his father’s face; it had been remarkably similar to how Bolvar had looked when he’d asked him to explain what ‘the Birds and the Bees’ meant. “He told me that the stars were the eyes of the Kings of the past looking down on us from the Light. That he would join them, when he was gone, and would always be there to guide me should I ever need it.”

Wrathion was silent for a long time, and then he nodded and said “it’s certainly a pretty story to tell a child.” Pretty. Yes, Anduin supposed that it was. And on that warm night long ago after his father had rescued him from being neck deep in kobolds it had brought him some measure of comfort but that hadn’t lasted long. He’d quickly learned that the stars were just points of Light in the sky, no different than the sun or moon, but the memory of that story was still something he cherished as that had been during the time where the King had been in a deep depression due to his mother’s death and contact between them had been minimal. “I’d never have pegged your father as possessing such an inventive imagination.”

“Wrynns are full of surprises by design.” Anduin said. “What do Dragons believe about the stars?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Wrathion said it without any hint of sadness in his voice: as if it were a statement of fact and nothing more. In some ways Anduin supposed it was. “I eradicated my own Flight out of necessity. Contact with other Flights is something I tended to avoid until recently and even when I did encounter them I never bothered to ask about something so insignificant.”

“I’m sorry.” Anduin said. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“I did what I had to and I don’t regret it.” Wrathion told him. “I’ve never been inclined to speak about it but it doesn’t bother me and I know you must have questions you’ve been biting down on for years. Why not ask them now?”

The Priest turned his head to examine the Dragon and apparently found whatever confirmation he was looking for on the Black Prince’s face because he said “do you wish you did something differently?”

“You’re logic being that, as you’re not an Old God, you could control them and I could have a semblance of a Flight?” Wrathion shook his head. “Yes and no. Nefarian. Onyxia. My father. Most of my Flight deserved to die for the atrocities they committed. But…I do wish things could have gone differently with Fahrad. Though I can safely say that you, dear one, are the only thing aside from Azeroth itself I’ve ever truly loved…”

“You were close.” Wrathion nodded. “What about your mother?”

“To whom are you referring?”

Anduin blinked. “Your mother. The Dragon that laid your egg. What did you think I meant?”

“I don’t consider Nyxondra to be my mother. Yes she laid my egg and yes what happened to her was terrible and yes it’s sad the way she died but my care ends at that of a stranger.” He said. “I hate the Red Dragonflight-they’re hypocrites and cowards-but Rheastraza was kind to me. Maybe even loved me. I do know that she died for me. If I have a mother at all it would be her.” From the way Wrathion hunched forwards he could tell the Black Prince wasn’t as unbothered by the topic of conversation as he claimed. “What about you, Anduin? You’ve never spoken of your mother in any meaningful capacity.”

Reflexively he reached for his neck but stopped his hand halfway there and set it back in his lap. “I know that I get most of my features from my mother, that her name was Tiffin, that she was a Priest the same as I am and that she and my father didn’t get along at first. I know that she was kind and loved our people and that she was killed by a rock thrown in the riot which broke out the day I was presented as Prince. I was only a few weeks old.” He said. “All I have of her is her locket, but…it broke a few days before you came to get me. I’d sent it in for repairs.”

“We’ll go back for it.”

Anduin rounded on him, eyes wide in alarm. “Attack Stormwind over a locket? It may be all I have of my mother but it’s ultimately just a trinket and not worth such measures Wrathion.” He said. “I don’t need a locket to remember her. Just like how I don’t need his sword to remember my father.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so!”

In the distance a Mushan roared. The clouds had shifted and the blue star was no longer in sight. “What’s it like?”

“It?” Anduin repeated, voice laced with confusion.

“Having a father that isn’t hell bent on killing you? A family that cares?”

“…Nice.” He finally said after a long moment. “My father always was a bit unstable but I know he loved me to death and that every time he hurt me it was an accident: that he hated himself for it even though he knew I never blamed him. How over protective he was made me feel stifled, especially as I got older, but now in an odd way I missed it.”

“You miss being locked in a room and shackled with guards everywhere you go?” Wrathion asked. “Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

Anduin shrugged. “I don’t have a justification for it. I suppose it’s just an attachment to the connection to my father that I miss.” He said. “When I was a little boy-and I mean really little; four or five-I used to wake him up in the middle of the night by crawling into bed with him.”

Wrathion looked at him oddly, as if he couldn’t fathom doing such a thing. “Why?”

“Because I’d had a nightmare and was afraid to be alone in the dark.”

“And what did he do?”

“Sang old lullabies until I fell asleep again.”

“And what did that sound like?”

“A sword rack falling off the wall,” Anduin chuckled, “but it was affective.”

“I can’t imagine anything being able to fall asleep to what you’ve just described.”

“It was more the knowledge that nothing in its right mind would go anywhere _near_ that sort of noise that helped.” The Priest’s smile grew sad. “It made me feel safe.”

“I’m afraid that _my_ singing would draw things in so I can’t help you there. But seeing as you’re now the Ruler of Nightmares I don’t think you have to worry about that anymore.” Wrathion said. “What are you still doing out here; sunrise is in five hours.”

“I can’t take another night sleeping in an amber pod.” He told him. “Sleeping out here in the grass is more comfortable.”

“And yet you’re not sleeping.”

“No, I’m not, despite my best efforts. There’s too much on my mind.” When Anduin looked over at him again there was heat in his eyes. “I need a distraction.”

“A distraction?” the Dragon’s black eyebrows rose into his hair line, fighting off a grin and making a point of looking around. “Well, there’s a tree over there that we could climb. Or we could take a walk, if you’d like. There’s nothing in our immediate vicinity which could entertain you.”

“I can think of something.” Anduin leaned his weight against him, pressing chest to chest, and began dropping teasing feather light kisses along the Black Prince’s jawline. “You collecting on our little wager would do nicely.”

“Out here? In the open?” the Black Prince made a point of sounding scandalized as the smaller male pawed at the countless layers of clothing Wrathion preferred to wrap himself in. “Who are you and what have you done with Anduin Wrynn?”

“It’s the middle of the night, the Dread Wastes aren’t exactly a tourist destination and- _by the Light, why must you insist on dressing like a Winter’s Veil gift?”_

“Because I find frustrating you remarkably entertaining?” Wrathion hissed sharply when Anduin finally managed to get his hand through the folds of his clothing and wrapped his fingers around his length. “Your hands are freezing.”

“They’ll warm up.” His breath was hot and wet against the shell of his ear, sharp teeth gently raking against thin skin. “I don’t know what I’m doing, dear Dragon, so you’re going to have to tell me what you want.”

“A bit more pressure would be a nice start.” The Black Prince struggled to keep his voice calm as thin fingers tightened around him. Stroking and circling the head with his thumb. “An even better start would be that lovely mouth of yours.”

“Oh? My dear Dragon, have you seen my teeth?”

“I have, but I trust you not to bite me.” Half-lidded, ember eyes watched as the Shadow Priest undid the ties and buttons with precise motions and drew him out. Leaning in and experimentally flicking out his tongue. Running the tip along the threading of blue veins.

“Like this?” his voice was perfectly sweet as he repeated the same motion.

“A bit more, love.”

Anduin, smirking wickedly all the while, tilted his head and examined his partner as if he were a particularly daunting puzzle. Leaning forward again, he began nuzzling the smooth skin of Wrathion’s thigh and pressing plush kisses against his length. :Parting his lips as he reached the Dragon’s ruddy crown but never quite enough to fully take him into his mouth. “Like this?”

Wrathion shot him a disgruntled look, fully aware that though his Consort likely wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t a clue what he was doing he was more than intelligent enough to work things out further than this on his own. He was being toyed with. The Black Dragon pulled the band from Anduin’s hair and, carding his fingers through the soft golden locks, gently pressed his head down.

“Still just a bit more, my dear.”

Keeping his gaze locked with Wrathion’s and as innocent as ever the blonde allowed himself to be directed. First taking just the head into his mouth and then, with a suddenness which made the Dragon wonder what in the Light the Priest had been up to that had left him with such control over his gag reflex, sliding downwards. Wrapping one of his hands around what he couldn’t reach and resting the other with some force against Wrathion’s hip to prevent him from bucking.

The tight wet heat which engulfed him successfully rendered his mind blank and it was all he could do to keep himself from tugging too hard on the hair he’d wrapped around his fingers as Anduin bobbed his head. The motions of his tongue and throat clumsy but effective. By the time Wrathion thought to warn him it was already too late and he barely managed a sharp whine before his vision briefly whited out. The Priest didn’t seem terribly cross about it as he sat back on his knees and set about untangling his hair.

“In the future, try pipping up a bit sooner.”

“I’ll admit to being snuck upon myself.” The Black Prince gently wiped a dribble of murky fluid from the corner of the other’s mouth with his thumb. “What, exactly, do you Priests get up to in Stormwind’s cathedral?”

“That, dear Dragon, is a sacred secret.” Anduin informed him, only to color a moment later.

“What now?”

“…I’m cold. But I really don’t want to go back to Klaxxi’vess.” He said. “Could you stay out here with me so I can use you like a hot rock?”

“And the truth comes out: I’m nothing but your heating pad. Is that it?”

“There are less troublesome heating pads.”

“But none so affective: I, after all, am the very best at everything.”

“If I agree with you will you do it?”

With an overdramatized huff clearly designed to make the matter seem like more effort than it was the Black Prince shifted forms in a great puff of smoke. “Best to do things thoroughly if I am to be used as a ‘hot rock’.” He said, resting his massive head on his paws. “Now come here and actually get some sleep.”

“Yes Mom.” Anduin snorted, clambering over Wrathion’s tail and crawling beneath the scarlet webbing of his wing. Curling up against his side, the slight shivering of his body immediately beginning to slow. “Thanks, Wrathion.”

The Dragon snorted curls of smoke into the cold air and said nothing, watching his Consort fall into a pattern of soft breathing against his ebon scales.


	11. Blood Bone and Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, check out elbrethali at deviant art; thanks again to them for the fanart.

“When next we come here we’ll have to remember to bring our own lodgings; interesting as it was to sleep curled up in an Amber bubble the stiffness got old really fast.”

“Which is why I never bothered with attempting to squeeze myself into one of them.” Wrathion snorted. “Was Dragon scale more comfortable?”

Nightshade eyes shifted shrewdly over to him as Anduin tugged his gloves back into place. “Yes, my dear Dragon. You make a good pillow.”

With a taloned paw and an absurd delicacy considering how durable Anduin had become the Dragon drew him closer against his scales. “At least I’m best at something.”

The Priest dropped his head against the ridge in front of him and sighed. “This obsession with being the best at everything will end up being the death of you some day.”

“I’m not concerned.” Wrathion released him and stretched himself to his full impressive height. “I am the last of the Blackflight, the last of the Aspects with anything close to Titan-given powers and the Consort of the great and powerful dread God Al’gothoth who I’m certain would defend his ‘hot rock’ if things ever went sour enough that I couldn’t manage on my own.”

“About that ‘Last of the Blackflight’ comment…”

A glowing eye focused on him sharply. “ _What_ about the ‘Last of the Blackflight’ comment?”

“I’m not certain so don’t panic,” as if in hopes of preventing him from doing just that Anduin reached up and grabbed the horn on Wrathion’s snout to keep him in place, “but there may be some left. Not on Azeroth, so you wouldn’t have known about them, but in Outland.”

“Where in Outland?”

“The Blade’s Edge Mountains.” Anduin said. “Like I said I’m not sure but I read a lot of old travel journals which adventurers had left in Stormwind library and more than a few which detailed the broken world beyond the Dark Portal mentioned a sizeable klatch of the Blackflight who’d made their home there.”

“And you want to recruit them?” Wrathion grumbled.

“I want to try. They must want to return to Azeroth but are probably afraid of being dragged back into madness.”

“So those journals convinced you that they were uncorrupted too, then?”

“And more importantly,” Anduin continued, as if he hadn’t heard, “I want to approach them because if they do exist and they do come back not only will Azeroth have its Earthwarders back in force but you won’t have to bear the burden of ‘the last’ anymore. You won’t have to be alone.”

“I’m _not_ alone.” The Black Prince’s tail twitched irritably. “I have you.”

“I’m not a Dragon, Wrathion. I know it’s not the same.”

“I don’t want it to be the same.” He bumped his snout into Anduin’s chest with enough force that he almost toppled over. “I’m not lacking for anything. Stop worrying that I might be ‘lonely’ or something else equally ridiculous.”

“Of course not.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“And what of you, dear one, since we’re on the topic of being ‘lonely’ and ‘the last’?” the Dragon said. “Yshaarj dead. C’thun and Yogg’saron soon to never be heard from again. You the last of the Shath’yar at least on Azeroth. Reconsidering imprisoning them?”

“I won’t be alone, Wrathion. Once we’ve rebuilt his body with that Titan machine and my blood and bone he’ll be Shath’yar as well.”

“Your…Anduin, he’s three times your size!”

“And not everything is going to come from this body.”

“But some will?”

The gaze of those strange eyes was steady, his grip on the Dragon’s horn unyielding. “As is only right. I came, in part, from his. Now I give that back.”

Another annoyed twitch of his tail. “If there are Black Dragons in Outland,” he said, “nothing hatched comes back with us.”

“Agreed,” Anduin said, pulling himself up onto Wrathion’s back. “But we’ll worry about Zeryxia’s clutch first: the rookery in Grim Batol should be properly outfitted by now.”

“Ah, so it was that and not Wolf’s Den to which you were referring?” turning away from the rise on which they’d spent the night the Dragon began to make his way back towards Klaxxi’vess. “Since his return is hours away at this point I’d like to know your plan.”

“For what?”

“For me to not end up mounted on the wall, Anduin.”

“My father is perfectly reasonable.” The scoffing sound the Dragon made made it clear he didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’ll explain everything once he wakes up. He may not like you right away…he definitely won’t like you right away because he didn’t like you to begin with but he won’t hurt you because that would hurt me. And he’d never hurt me on purpose.”

Wrathion still didn’t seem convinced. “And what’s to stop him from leaping at me before you have a chance to open your mouth, beloved?”

“You not being in the room.”

Well…yes, that would reasonably work. “Call me when you’re ready to have that conversation.” He said. “I’m sure he’ll be confused at first. May still think he’s on the Broken Shore for a brief time.” His talons clicked as grass transitioned into stone. “If he’s really going to be Shath’yar he’ll likely be physically stronger than you. Even knowing you can’t die I’d rather not have you hurt.”

“I’ll be fine, Wrathion. You don’t need to worry about me.” Anduin assured him. “Everything will turn out fine, you’ll see. And, with him back, everything will be easier.”

The Black Prince sighed. “I see that even now you haven’t learned to consider that you might be capable alone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having people around you to help, my dear Dragon. No matter how capable one is there will inevitably be something they cannot do without help.”

Wrathion grumbled but didn’t reply.

Caliona and Noxian were waiting for them at the center of the Mantid dwelling with Right-forcing herself to stare at the back of the Drake’s head and nothing else-and Left-watching Right with a mix of amusement and concern-on their backs. Four winged Mantid whose names, if Anduin recalled correctly, were Krim, A’ke, Halik and Jolak had surrounded them in a loose ring and seemed to be the main source of Right’s distress.

“We are prepared, Old One, to accompany you into the Mogu ruins.” Halik clicked, his wings rattling together. “By the glory of the Empress, and yours through her, we will hold off any of the usurper’s children who seek to interfere.”

“I am eternally grateful to your Empress for her decision to dedicate your people to my cause.” He said. “Your service is appreciated.”

“It is the purpose of the Elder Races to serve the Old Ones. This, like the cycle, is our way.”

“It would seem, beloved, that they require no thanks.” Wrathion interjected before Anduin, true to his nature, could insist. “Shall we be on our way?”

The Priest looked down at him with mild annoyance before he said “yes, I think we should.” Turning his gaze back to the Mantid he asked “what’s the word on the contingents the Hammer is to be lent?”

“Half way to your Highlands by now, Old One. They’ll have arrived once you’re finished with the Wakening.”

‘Wakening’: the term which had been applied to the process of freeing the Mantid Paragons whom had ultimately sided with Garrosh from the amber they’d been preserved in. That was not at all what was happening but seeing as that was the only term they had for anything remotely similar Anduin was content to allow the inaccuracy to continue regardless.

“Thank you. I’ll expect them then. Will aid be required to construct your outpost?”

“The Kunchong are more than enough; we don’t require your fleshy pets.”

Anduin could practically hear Wrathion’s mental complaint of ‘again with the ‘pets’; I am _not_ a _pet_!’ In a less than affective attempt to offer at least some comfort the Priest patted the scales on the side of the Dragon’s neck.

“That should be everything taken care of, then.” He said. “To Mogu’shan to make use of the Engine of Nalak’sha.” The Black Prince was all too pleased to spread his wings and leap into the air, nearly toppling Anduin off his back as he swiftly climbed towards the clouds. Eyes wide and quickly righting himself once they’d leveled off, he shouted “still showing off I see!”

“Anduin,” Wrathion called back, disappointed that the Mantid didn’t have near as much trouble as the Drakes did catching up, “I’m _always_ showing off!”

Klaxxi’vess quickly fell behind them, beige and amber replaced by pale stone and bluish grass. Black soil and trees with needle leaves and curling trunks. The Forgotten Mire opened below; ringed in by smaller blue trees with flat leaves, mist clung tight to the shallow water through which Mistlurkers waded on trunk like orange legs.

Anduin still found the serpent’s spine to be an incredible sight to behold: a truly titanic barrier of man-sized grey stones, its ridged ramparts riddled with balistraria and its ends supported by pagoda-like towers with roofs shingled in jade. Built on the backs and bones of slaves; a terrible achievement of the Mogu but an achievement none the less and something which now worked for the greater good of protecting most of Pandaria. Something for him to keep in mind: no matter how bad the fighting got the lives lost would pale in number to those saved.

In the years which had passed since the resurrection of Yshaarj’s heart the damage to the Veil of Eternal Blossoms had been repaired; golden grass and white trees blossoming in tones of red and orange rolled below them but the massive Mogu statues which towered above the rest of the Veil hadn’t been in any way touched and still stood in ruin.

“The Legion’s presence on this continent seems to be a sufficient distraction to the defenders of this place, Master.” Caliona said. “There’s no one to oppose you.”

“Because they do not know we’re here, Caliona.” Noxian said from Wrathion’s other side. “When our Lord activates the Titan device someone’s bound to notice. And when they do they’ll come looking.”

“And when they come looking they’ll find that they’ve bitten off far more than they can chew! We’ll show these ‘Pandaren’ the true force of the Twilight Dragonflight!”

“Just make sure that while you’re showing them that ‘fury’ you don’t let anything slip by.” Wrathion said, earning glares from both drakes. “There’s enough that could go wrong with this already without adding in additional distractions. The use of Titan technology is an incredibly difficult matter and the materials we’re working with are bound to be volatile.”

Mogu’shan Palace was just ahead of them now: a grandiose structure of gold and ruby built into the side of a towering cliff face.

“Hold them off for an hour.” Anduin’s gaze was focused on the palace entrance. “That should be enough time to find our way through and use it. If we finish before then I’ll call for you. Fall back to the Engine. We’ll use a Rift to return to the Highlands.”

The decorative tiles of the veranda cracked with the force of their landing, Wrathion halfway to the entrance before he’d even begun to transform back with Anduin just steps behind.

“The Engine itself is located in Kunlai,” the Black Prince informed him as they pelted down a crimson hallway, taking twists and turns through massive empty rooms, “hidden in the Mogu’shan Vaults, one of the places I sent my Champions prior to your arrival. But getting into its controls, making any use of it at all, would be difficult if not impossible using the obvious entrance. A portal at the end of a secret passage contained here, in the Palace, will take us there directly.”

“I suppose that makes sense, at the very least.” Anduin skidded slightly on the carpet as Wrathion stopped in front of him just long enough to flip a hidden switch. “If the Mogu really used it for Flesh Shaping their rulers would want a quicker means of accessing it than traveling to Kunlai. Though I have to wonder how you figured this all out.”

The formerly solid wall had swung inwards, revealing a wide set of stairs which curled away into the gloom of thick shadows.

“Somethings, beloved,” Wrathion informed him as they started down the stairs two at a time, “are meant to remain as secrets for the ages.”

The corridor at the bottom of the staircase was long broad and dark and their footsteps rattled against the vaulted stone walls. The portal at the far end was a pinprick of light, rapidly growing closer as they kept running and barreled through it. Tumbling out onto the black stone in a heap.

Disentangling their limbs, Anduin rolled off of the Dragon and onto his knees. Reaching into the bag at his side and pulling out a satchel of what Wrathion soon realized were clothes. In the dim, blue light which filled the complex the fabric gleamed the peculiar reddish color of Embersilk.

“What is that for?” Anduin sent him an incredulous look. “What? It’s a perfectly valid question.”

“The Engine of Nalak’sha makes clothes too, does it?”

“Of course-oh, I see. What you brought those for, I mean.” He refused to acknowledge the other’s smirk. “Hard to imagine that would fit him though.”

“I only folded it fifty times; of course it looks smaller than it is.” The Priest said, getting to his feet. “Please tell me you know how to work this thing.”

“Anduin, I was assembled with Titan technology. Of _course_ I know how to work it.” Wrathion said tartly, getting to his feet as well. “The control panel is there and the input hatch is over there.”

“So even the Titans couldn’t make something out of nothing.” That statement sounded strangely smug. Wrathion watched Anduin saunter towards the indicated point of interest for a few moments before following. A massive circular pane of glass had been inset into the ceiling and through its distorted image the Dragon could see the Wheels of the Engine itself hanging from thick curtains.

“No, even the Titans required material to start with.” Anduin’s fingers were almost too pale against the dark bronze as he ran them along the delicate carvings which stood out in relief. It was moments like these, which thankfully didn’t happen terribly often, when the Black Prince remembered with a mild shock exactly what his Consort was; what he’d turned him into. Where the Priest looked truly sinister and possessed of the capability to tear Azeroth asunder on little more than a passing whim. “Though that material tended to be stone or metal, not the flesh and blood of an Old God.”

“No,” Anduin drew the blade from Iapetus as the floor beside them cracked and split, allowing a tentacle to force its way into the chamber. “I suppose it wasn’t. We’re abusing it, but so were the Mogu and it’s for a better cause.”

The blade flashed in the low light and Wrathion couldn’t help but wince at the sheering sound of metal through flesh. Anduin calmly picked up the still squirming limb and dropped it through the hatch.

“That we are.” He said, half weakly, as Anduin began divesting himself of his upper garments. “Did that hurt?”

“Not terribly.” The Priest dropped the cloth on the ground beside him and reached into the hatch again with the arm that wasn’t holding the blade. “But this will.”

Before Wrathion could do much beyond register the implications of exactly what Anduin meant by that he’d severed the limb at the shoulder with the crack of bone. Biting down on a scream of pain and dropping his weapon he fell to his knees, clutching clumsily at the wound with his remaining hand.

“ _Anduin!_ ” The Dragon didn’t know what he’d thought his Consort had meant when he’d talked about blood and bone but having the Priest cut off one of his own limbs without warning hadn’t been even the vaguest possibility. Horrified, dizzy with the acid smell of ichor, Wrathion lunged for the former King. Seeing only the sickly pallor which had overcome him and agony in the set of his features and failing to notice the bleeding had already begun to slow.

“It’s alright.”

“Alright? You just-!”

“I’m fine, Wrathion. I knew what I was doing: it’s already growing back.”

“How did you know that it was going to grow back, Anduin? You could have ended up having only one arm for the rest of eternity! Such recklessness is entirely unlike you and- _Azeroth, you tested this!”_

Anduin’s smile wasn’t quite as affective as it normally would have been, largely due to the fact that his eyes were watering in pain. “Fingers hurt even more. They just grow back faster and take less mana.”

Unable to properly determine the best response the Dragon settled for an annoyed sigh. “So one of your fingers is on the floor somewhere in the Bastion of Twilight?”

“I know better than to leave something like that laying around!”

“Forgive me for doubting that.”

Anduin stuck his tongue out at him; an action that looked all together bizarre when accompanied by the slow crawl of skin and muscle across the rapidly lengthening jut of bone which the Black Prince assumed was his new arm. “I’ll have it almost completely back within the hour and completely back by the time we’re back at the Bastion and have everything ready.” Shutting the hatch with a loud clang he began the somewhat clumsy process of picking up his things with only one hand. “Now please stop worrying about me and go turn on the Engine. We only have so much time here.”

“Anduin-.”

“Wrathion, please!” His eyes had dried but there was now a desperation there that hadn’t been before.

“Alright, beloved, but come away from there first. That’s not a very safe place to be standing.”

Anduin allowed himself to be lifted back onto his feet and tugged from beneath the glass dome. Trailing behind Wrathion as the Dragon walked up to the control panel and, after momentary examination, began flipping switches. Looking on with interest as the panel began to glow with numerous tiny, dancing lights.

“Prepare yourself,” the Black Prince informed him as he depressed the button in the center. “This will be a little loud.”

With the deafening whine of ancient gears grinding back to life the complex was flooded with a blinding white light.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The dazzling violet flames of the Twilight Dragonflight licked across the broken tiles of the veranda, scouring the ceramic with soot and char marks. Noxian roared and swung his club-like tail, sending one of the Golden Lotus defenders flying through a railing and over the edge into the waters below. Caliona lifted off with two powerful wingbeats and dropped down again, shaking the ground beneath them and sending both their attackers and Left and Right stumbling. The Mantid buzzed around at speeds too fast for her eyes to follow, their amber armaments slashing through flesh and bone and armor with terrifying ease.

Right’s eyes swiftly scanned the battle and she raised her crossbow in time to catch the shaft of a blade staff against the metal arms. Without hesitation she pulled the trigger and spun away, taking aim at another Monk as they charged forwards.

Things had been perfectly fine for the first twenty minutes after they’d arrived but then a pillar of white light had erupted from the direction of Kunlai Summit and the Golden Lotus had begun to swarm like angered bees. They’d been fighting now for close to half an hour and though neither the Mantid nor the Drakes showed any signs of tiring, despite having more than a few arrows buried quite deeply in their scaled hides the Pandaren were skilled fighters and almost didn’t seem to have an end. Right had just begun to fear that they’d be pushed back before they’d been called when she felt her Blood Stone go off.

“The Master calls!” Noxian snarled, cutting off mid-blast. “Go, mortals! We’ll be just behind you and these insects!”

The Mantid had clattered to the ground and disappeared into the dark doorway. The Drakes were now backing towards it, wings mantled and teeth bared.

“Right!” Left was standing on the Palace’s threshold. “Come on!”

Right fired off a final bolt from her cross bow and sprinted through the doorway, the blasts of Dragon’s breath ringing out twice more behind them before the Drakes came into view in their smaller Human forms at the far end of the corridor they’d just passed through.

She got the distinct impression that the staircase they were currently running down wasn’t supposed to be there but didn’t really have the time to spare to pay that fact much mind. There was a portal at the end of the Corridor. Left grabbed her wrist and pulled her through it before she could properly process what it was.

Anduin, along with whatever twisted fruit had come of the Shadow Priest’s efforts, had already disappeared but the Black Prince was still there. Urgently standing beside the Rift with his red eyes set on the portal they’d come through.

“He’s waiting on the other side to close it! Hurry!”

The Mantid dove through without sparing him a second glance. Noxian and Caliona came bounding out of the portal behind them with the Pandaren on their tail. As she and Left ran passed Right grabbed a fistful of the Black Prince’s tunic, careless for the disrespect in favor of getting him to safety, and dragged him back through the Right which immediately collapsed behind them.

“You’re both riddled through with arrows. Get yourselves seen to.” Anduin’s voice held an expected note of concern, though it sounded genuine enough. “Krim, A’ke, Halik, Jolak: you’re more than welcome to make yourselves at home. Wrathion…I’ve work to do.”

“Of course, my dear.” Wrathion said, smoothing out the front of his tunic where Right had rumpled it. “I’ll get Left and Right both settled in here before I join you; I’ll be just outside when you need me.”

Anduin nodded and exited the room, walking down dark hallways lit by wall sconces of lilac fire and descending a series of wide staircases until he reached the proper door. A man in full armor was waiting beside the door, only recognizable as Lazarus by the yatagan belted to his side, dropped to one knee as he approached; the helm on his head, crudely hammered into the shape of what might have been a wolf, clanged against his chest piece.

“Master,” with his accent Anduin would have pegged the man as a Tanari, though how he’d gone from waste wandering to serving the Twilight’s Hammer he didn’t know. He supposed it didn’t really matter. “We’ve moved the body into Wolf’s Den, as requested. Everything is in place for the Alpha’s return.”

Alpha? They were talking this ‘wolf’ thing kind of far. “Thank you, Lazarus.” He said. “Should I need anything I’ll alert you. When Wrathion arrives, let him in. Oh, and…maybe have that helm redone by a proper blacksmith.”

Anduin pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.

Wolf’s Den had been intended, in his mind, to be little more than a tongue and cheek name for his father’s private rooms at the Bastion. He’d expected something similar to what would have constituted such in Stormwind: a private bedroom, washroom, sitting room and library. What he found instead, and he really should have known better by now, was an enclave for the Warriors within the Twilight’s Hammer which contained not only the private rooms but armories, forges for repairs, training arenas and what was likely intended to be a war room in the future. Now, with its bare walls and the stone table in the middle on which his father lay, it looked more like a sepulcher.

In the wake of what Gul’dan had done there’d been no corpse to bury, only a final letter and an empty box made of stone. The compass, the armor, the sword: all lost. The last time he’d seen Varian Wrynn it had been as he was heading off to a war, his last memory one of an assurance that the letter Genn had brought to him revealed the King had not believed. Suddenly being confronted with his father laying there completely still in front of him while he wasn’t standing in the middle of a Titan complex he’d technically just broken into on the run from the Veil’s defenders pulled him up short and filled his chest with a tangle of feelings Anduin had no desire to attempt to unravel. Despair. Pain. Doubt. More and worse. Shaking them off he squared his shoulders and forced his feet forwards until the toes of his boots scuffed against the table’s foot.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to examine the work that the Engine of Nalak’sha had done before they’d left in a hurry. Had been concerned something, or potentially everything, might have gone wrong especially with all Wrathion’s talk of ‘delicate machinery’ and ‘volatile substances’. Much to his relief he found these worries to be unfounded. Black hair. Broad shoulders. Massive hands. Even the scars. Everything was just the same as he remembered. His father wasn’t pale like he was, didn’t have black veins or nails. Would his eyes still be the cutting blue-grey of sword steel or would they be different? Like his? Something entirely different?

More importantly how was he ever supposed to begin to explain what had happened? What he’d done? What he was? What if he really was doing something terrible? What if his father was happy where he was and didn’t want to come back? What if he turned on him in disgust? Denounced him as a monster: no longer his son and little better than Arthas for thinking that such things as life and death were his to play with, ‘God’ or not?

Anduin forced his shaking hands to still. He was being unreasonable. Maybe his father was happy where he’d ended up but of course he’d want to return to him. And turn on him? Never! Anduin could have stripped starkers in the middle of Stormwind and declared himself Sargeras and the man wouldn’t have given the vaguest damn. Still…the doubt lingered.

The Priest pushed such thoughts aside and centered himself, drawing on his memories and reaching through them for that horrifying Remembrance Day when he’d watched his father die in front of him from wounds sustained in Benedictus’ plot to kill them both. Seeking not the grief or the terror or even the images but the way it had felt. The surge of the Light through his veins. The boil of his mana. Drawing on the Void and willing it to mimic that. Cold power coursed through his blood and hissed in his muscles, lighting his hands with flickering blue and purple.

Without giving his doubts a chance to resurge Anduin rested his hands on his father’s chest and willed that energy to leave his fingers. Feeling it stretch and curl and reach the same way that the Light had. Holding it in place for as long as he could until the spell became too much and then relenting, allowing the violet light to fade. He stood there. Poised. Waiting for the slightest motion to confirm that it had worked. A twitch. A breath.

When none came Anduin reached out and shook him, like a child in an effort to gain attention. Expecting that that would work. Would illicit some response. But no. Nothing, still. Eyes widening, panic beginning to mount, the young Priest seized his arm and shook him harder. Desperately. Convinced that somehow if he shook the Warrior in front of him violently enough it would force a reaction. Make him stop pretending.

“Father, wake up.” A whimper, threaded and reedy with distress. “Wake up! Please! This isn’t funny!” His vision began to blur, anger and despair twisting together like venomous serpents. He struck out. The blow thudding against his father’s chest just seconds before his knees broke and his body followed. Slumping forward across the motionless form and dissolving into tears; falling to pieces in a way he never had before.

Losing his father once had been bad enough. Having hope of his return dangled in front of him and then cruelly torn away was terrible. Anduin must have cried out at some point because suddenly Wrathion was there. Warm, gentle hands pulling him away. Coaxing him to bury his face in a chest which was warm instead of cold and smelled like smoke and spices. Rumbling nonsensical comforts in Draconic.

“Why?” he wailed, voice muffled in the folds of the Dragon’s tunic. “Why? _Why_?” Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t he woken up? Why, even after becoming a Shath’yar, was he _still_ so _weak?_

“You are _not_ weak.” Another thing he’d accidentally said outloud. “You’re not weak, Anduin, but truly overcoming death, especially so long after its occurred and with a body that isn’t the original, is incredibly difficult to do beloved. It’s the spell, not you. It may simply require to proper conduits.”

“’Proper conduits’, ‘may require’; do you know any of this for certain Wrathion or is this another ‘maybe’ aimed at getting me to do what _you_ want?”

The Black Prince decided to forgive the incredibly bitterness in his Consort’s voice, all things considered. “I do know for certain what the conduits you’d need are, yes.” Wrathion told him. “Though I’m afraid we won’t be in a position to retrieve them for a while yet. And when we are we’d be racing against not only the Legion, but the Alliance and the Horde.”

Narrowed eyes gazed up at him in half unwilling hope. “And what would those be?”

The Black Dragon ran a gentle hand along the arch of his back. “The Titan Pillars of Creation.”


	12. The Clutch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer to get out than I expected; sorry about the delay.
> 
> Thanks again to Icey for the fanart.

The night prior had not gone well; the failure of his efforts to resurrect his father had left Anduin in considerable distress but despite the Black Prince’s best efforts the Shadow Priest had stubbornly refused to be removed from the room. In the end Wrathion had resigned himself to an uncomfortable night spend coiled on the ground with his Consort in his arms and Lazarus hovering in the doorway like a fruit fly dressed in a metal suit. The former King hadn’t slept for even a moment that night, had barely moved, but come morning he’d pushed his grief aside-or at least had buried it for the time being-and now lounged on the fur draped throne busily putting forth a convincing mask of calm. Anduin was either conducting himself fully on sheer force of will, not wanting any further delays on account of his emotions, or had a greater ability to compartmentalize than Wrathion had ever realized.

He’d even accepted a less than substantial ‘breakfast’ in the form of a wine glass which would have been more than enough to keep an ogre on the floor and was filled with a dark red liquid the Dragon knew from the smell _wasn’t_ wine; it was now held loosely in one gloved hand while they waited for Lazarus to return with the other veterans, looking as if in considerable danger of tipping.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking that.”

Anduin paused with the rim of the cup at his lips before lowering it again. “Do I need to remind you about that time in the Tavern where you ate the Thunder King’s heart?”

“Dear one, I’m a Dragon.”

“And I’m a Shath’yar.” He raised the cup again to drink red remnants on his lips. “I don’t see your point.”

“My point is that when one thinks of what Old Gods eat for breakfast-what they eat for any meal-‘goblet of blood’ isn’t what comes to mind.” Wrathion said. “The more obvious choice is either ‘souls of the innocent’ or ‘still beating hearts of virgins’.”

“Haven’t we talked about this?” Anduin drained the remains of the cup and bent, somewhat awkwardly given his reclined position, over the arm of his throne and set it down with a clank. “Why do you think I even bother drinking that? I don’t want sacrifices, so I have to find some other way to curb the cravings and I don’t feel like actually eating something right now.”

“Ah, yes,” despite the other male’s veiled admission of continued discomfort Wrathion’s lips curled into a smile. “The raw meat.”

“Tell me, Black Prince,” Anduin showed his teeth in a grin of his own, “do you think me an animal?”

“One can’t help what they eat.” The Dragon said. “It’s hardly your fault you’re a savage. And I, my dear, love you regardless.”

“A savage, am I?” there was a hint of something playful in his voice but before anything could come of it Lazarus returned.

Rafa’s death in the purge of the Highlands had left the Hammer’s Hunters in the hands of a Night Elf whose name Wrathion hadn’t bothered to learn (a fact which Anduin would no doubt chide him for if he knew). From what he remember of the others they consisted of Pyper Clayden-a Worgen Rogue-Eicren Amaranth-a Forsaken Priest-Azhune Ravenbrace-a shaman who was massive, even for a Tauren-Thyrai Sunhawk-a Blood Elf Mage-Sorum Ironpass-a Dwarven warlock whom Anduin had swiftly banned from summoning Demons-Volkan Royal-another Worgen, this time a Druid-and the surprising, if uninspiring, Kitkink Wiresprocket who was both a Death Knight and a Gnome.

Sometimes Wrathion wondered.

“Thank you, Lazarus, for collecting everyone.” Dark eyes gleamed from within the helm’s fanged mouth, his overly eager bow-hindered by his armor-almost tipped him forward onto the floor. The Dragon thought that the entire get up-from the roughly shaped Wolf’s head helm with its gaping maw and dead-fish eyes to the bladed gauntlets which looked as if they’d been aped off a Druid of the Claw-looked patently ridiculous. Hopefully it would improve somewhat once someone more skilled at metal work saw to things. Perhaps one of the Cultists who’d worked on the statue…oh, that was right. Anduin didn’t know about the statue yet. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”

Expectant silence and staring eyes followed that statement. After waiting in vain for a few moments for a verbal response Anduin sighed and swung his legs off the arm of the throne, pulling himself into a properly upright position.

“I’ve unfortunate news. In order to succeed in my plans to restore my father I require the five Titan artifacts known as the Pillars of Creation and as such his return will be delayed. We’ll have to manage a while longer without his aid.” The Priest’s black nails tapped sharply against the arm of his throne. “Obtaining them will be an endeavor which isn’t easily carried out. The Horde and Alliance seek to use them to thwart the Legion and I doubt they’d be inclined to allow us to borrow them, however briefly.”

No, Wrathion could imagine they wouldn’t be.

“I’ll be sending word to Xavius and Azshara that they’re to redouble their efforts to obtain the Tear of Elune and Tidestone of Norgannon respectively soon. The Aegis of Aggramar, Hammer of Khaz’goroth and Eye of Aman’thul will have to be retrieved personally by the Hammer.”

“Our forces will set out for the Broken Isles immediately, Master. We’ll not fail you!” A clamor of agreement followed the Gnome’s high-pitched assertion but silenced instantly when Anduin raised his hand.

“As badly as I want my family back there are more immediate concerns to which I must attend, for the good of both the Hammer and this world as a whole. Attempting to do otherwise would be irresponsible of me.” He said. “For now, the Satyr and Naga will be as far as our presence on the Broken Isles extends. We first recover the Twilight Clutch, finish building my army and put a decisive end to my predecessor’s eternal war with the forces of C’thun and Yogg’saron. I’m certain that our competition for the Pillars from the Alliance and Horde will be largely defanged as they’re forced to turn their attention to us.”

And that left concerns for what the Legion might get up to while the eyes of the Factions were fractured.

“Zeryxia should have everything in place with her Drakes by now.” Anduin said. “We move on the Realm of Earth and use the occasion to properly announce ourselves: the Earthen Ring has based themselves around the Maelstrom, much as they did during the Cataclysm. While Wrathion, Zeryxia and I travel into Deepholme itself and bring the Clutch through the Grim Batol you, my friends, will distract the Shaman. Make certain that they know who you are and that it gets back to both the Alliance and the Horde.”

“As the Master wills.” Azhune’s massive hooves clacked against the mirrored floor as the Tauren shaman heaved himself upright. The impressive sweep of his horns caught the mauve glow of the flaming brackets. “Are we to kill them or to take prisoners in your name?”

“There’s no need for killing, this time. Nor for prisoners.” Anduin said. “Azeroth needs all the defenders that she can retain for as long as is tenably possible. We take none until doing so can no longer be avoided. The Mistress of Twilight awaits: report to the antechamber. I would speak briefly with my Consort alone.”

That sounded somewhat ominous.

The moment that the Cultists had left the room the Shadow Priest slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. Alarmed by the sudden change, Wrathion set a hand on his shoulder.

“Anduin?”

“Do you have any idea,” perse eyes peered at him through the gaps between the other’s fingers, “the predicament we’re in if the Pillars don’t work? If I fail again?”

The Black Prince cocked his head, the jewels on his horns clicking softly together. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

“It will prove,” the words came out in the rush of a sigh, “that I am not all powerful. That there are things that even the Shath’yar cannot do.”

“Is that not something we both already know, beloved?”

“We know. Yes.” Anduin sat back, his face carved from stone. “Do they?”

Cold fingers slid down his spine at the same moment that protective rage boiled up within him. Red eyes fluoresced and narrowed. “The Twilight’s Hammer would _never_ turn on you!”

The look Anduin sent him then was one which Wrathion had long since grown to associate with the dispensing of more of the young Priest’s typical sage advice. “What easier being is there to kill than the one which believes itself invincible?” The Dragon’s growl echoed around the chamber. “I’m not saying they’re thinking of such things, or that they’d want to, or that I suspect any of them of harboring plans to sneak back into Ny’alotha and run a blade through N’zoth’s heart.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That trouble may be coming if I fail again.” Anduin rose from the throne at last, lifting Iapetus from where the staff had rested against the metal arm. “We should get going. The Maelstrom is quite a ways flight away from here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Tess had sent the letter to Broll Bearmantle detailing her concerns regarding Valeera’s state of mind in the wake of the Spymaster’s troubling revelations the moment they’d returned to Stormwind from Darkshire hoping that the Cenarion Druid whom was the other Rogue’s last remaining tie would be able to, if not convince her to reconsider abandoning the Alliance and the Uncrowned, talk her down from doing something incredibly reckless in her grief that was bound to get her killed or driven mad.

Like going to the Highlands.

It had been about a week now and she hadn’t heard from either of them. Valeera had not returned to Stormwind or even Dalaran. No word had come from Broll. Now that the strike force Shaw had all but assigned her to create was finished-and really Mathias’ sudden bout of off behavior was strange in itself; strange but not quite strange enough to truly justify attempting to poke her nose into SI: 7 matters or to shield her from consequences if she was caught and that knowledge only served to make her even more antsy-Tess finally had the necessary free time to worry again.

She could remember with stark clarity how it had felt to lose her home: how could any Gilnean ever forget what the destruction of their homeland at the hands of the Forsaken had felt like? The horror; the trauma, the grief. Valeera had never had a homeland in that way; sure there was Quel’thalas but, proud as she was of her people’s culture and achievements, the other Rogue had admitted that being stolen from her people and dropped into the life of a gladiator had left her without much of a substantial tie to it. What she’d had instead was the home she’d found in Varian and his son, in the House of Wrynn, and with Anduin’s recent death the House of Wrynn had fallen.

Unlike Gilneas for Tess, Valeera had no chance of ever getting that back. And even without the Legion around to pose an ever present threat and now the Twilight’s Hammer prowling in the shadows she’d have worried for her mental state.

With the stiff flutter of violet plumage a massive bird settled on the tiles of the roof not far away, shifting form immediately after into a Night Elf.

“Broll!”

“Valeera is alright, all circumstances considered.” He said, though worry lines remained etched into his face. “She’s in Silvermoon, depending largely on the hospitality of a childhood acquaintance and the patience of their library.”

“What’s she doing there?” she wouldn’t have joined the Horde’s side of the war; not with the part that their retreat on the Broken Shore-justified or not-had played in all of this. And why the library particularly. “Research?”

“I believe so. That or simply attempting to drown herself in books.” That worried look didn’t shift. “She’s obsessed with translating Al’gothoth into a recognizable language. Convinced it will prove something, though what I can only guess at. She’d barely speak to me and wouldn’t sleep but at least she hasn’t run after the Hammer on her own.”

“So I wasn’t the only one who was concerned she might make good on her ‘my loyalties are personal’ spiel?” Tess said. “I’d started to worry she might have run off to either attempt the impossible or attempt the potentially impossible.”

“To bring him back to himself or to put the Hammer’s Master down?” Tess nodded. “She may yet attempt one of those two things. Out of a desire for revenge on Anduin’s behalf and loyalty to Varian who wouldn’t stand for his son’s body being defaced and abused in such a way as the Spymaster claims it has been.”

“Claims?” Tess repeated. “You think he’s lying?”

“Lying? No. But the source of our belief that Anduin cannot be saved comes from the mouth of madness. Can the word of a Twilight’s Hammer zealot truly be trusted on anything?”

The Druid certainly had a point with that one. What would be the point for an Old God-which presumably wanted to reshape the world and rule it-to work with the Burning Legion which would literally destroy Azeroth leaving nothing behind to rule? And what about the false aurora: where had the clash of Fel and Shadow Magic come from if not a conflict between the Twilight’s Hammer and the Legion?

“I suppose that’s true.” She said. “Do you really think we’ll ever have him back? And, even if we did somehow manage to, do you think he’d be the same?”

“Anduin is more resilient than most give him credit for.” Broll’s blue gaze was resolute. “Before we condemn him to death we have to try and break through to him: we cannot believe what the Cultist Shaw encountered divulged until we’ve proven it ourselves. But I worry the Alliance’s leaders will still choose to sacrifice him if it means sealing N’zoth back inside his prison. I’ve discussed my misgivings with Malfurion but worry his desire to prevent the Nightmare from encroaching any further-to prevent another manifestation of the mist in this world-may be the factor which decides his vote.”

“It won’t come to a vote until we’ve caught him.” Tess said. “And surely even one vote would be enough to prevent his outright execution. The Prophet, surely, wouldn’t condemn his student while any other recourse may be available. Moira is his friend and he’s saved her life before. My father sees him as a second son.”

“And with things as they would be without the hand of Sargeras hanging over Azeroth I might take some comfort from that. But expedience alone may be what decides his fate now.”

Talk like this was almost enough to make Tess hope they never caught up to the Hammer at all. “You should have faith that the Light will guide them to the right choice. That’s what Anduin would say.”

Broll looked as if he wanted to respond, but one of the city’s guardsmen ever present on patrol called up to her from the streets below.

“Princess Greymane, you’re wanted in the keep. There’s a Pandaren here with news and Hikaet believes you need to hear what he has to say.”

Tess quickly dismounted the low hanging roof and dropped onto the stone streets below. She didn’t bother to wait for the guard, leaving him behind and making her way back towards the keep at a clipped pace. The towering Draeni paladin met her at the door, long hair tousled around the base of her horns.

“The Pandaren who came here claims to have word on Anduin.” White eyes focused on her face for any signs of reaction. “We thought it was better you be here to hear what he has to say rather than getting it second hand from one of us.”

“Thank you for calling for me.” Tess said, nodding at the Draeni. “He’s in the throne room?”

“Yes.” The Paladin stepped aside, following her through the palace antechamber and up the slanted hallway to the throne room.

But for a bouquet of Peacebloom, the petals of which had begun to brown and curl, the Lion Seat was empty. Tess refused to look at it, her gaze instead roving across the members of the assembled strike force-there was at least one member of every Alliance race present, a show of support and unity in the effort of subduing the Twilight’s Hammer’s threat, though it was of no surprise to anyone that the vast majority of the force was made up of members of the Royal Guard-and landing on the Pandaren.

Tall fat and furry, dressed in the red and golden tabard of a Lorewalker. As far as she knew he could have been anyone. Worried golden eyes focused on her and he pressed his hands together and bowed in greeting. “Hello. I am Lorewalker Cho.” He said. “I have heard about your King’s predicament and am afraid I have some troubling news.”

Troubling news? Of course; how could it possibly be anything else?

“I remember your King from back when he was still a young Prince running wild in Pandaria. We talked a number of times on the Timeless Isle and during the trial of Garrosh Hellscream. He has grown, and between the distortion of the glass and the brightness of the Engine of Nalak’sha it was difficult to see, but I still recognized him.” He said. “The Golden Lotus managed to force them from Mogu’shan but though the immediate danger has passed I thought it best to alert you. If it is true that he has been overcome by a similar power to what was unearthed in the Veil of Eternal Blossoms I fear what use he may have had for Titan technology. The same piece of Titan technology once used by the Mogu in their terrible Flesh Shaping.”

Old God. Titan technology. Flesh shaping. That was not an equation Tess ever wanted to see solved: the mere sound of it was ominous. What had he done or tried to do? Create some sort of weapon? Some sort of soldiers? Had it worked? What else had he done while in Pandaria?

“How long ago did this happen?” He’d said that the Golden Lotus had chased the Hammer off but that didn’t mean they weren’t still somewhere on the continent. And even if they weren’t there might have been some hint left behind as to what they were up to. Some alternative method of getting to Anduin which wouldn’t involve storming the Twilight Highlands.

Before the Pandaren could answer another guard came running in, his uniform helm slightly askew and his sword half protruding from its scabbard as if it had been jammed in with haste. “The Hammer is attacking the Earth Shrine!”

Anduin had ordered his forces to attack Stormwind. There were Cultists in the city. It was the Cataclysm all over again!

The matter of the Twilight’s Hammer’s dealings in Pandaria and the Lorewalker himself for the moment entirely forgotten Tess bolted back out of the Keep with the others only steps behind. Racing the short distance through the city’s streets to the lake at the center of which the Earth Shrine stood.

Even in the height of day the flashes of blue-violet fire were visible long before they made it there, forcing their way through scours of civilians who were fleeing in fear. A Twilight Drake wheeled above the Earth Shrine, spitting occasional bursts of flame to keep the guards back from the fight going on in the center. Beside a recently opened portal a Dwarf Shaman was doing his best to hold off the vicious assault of a warrior armed with a pair of curving blades.

Feral brown eyes flicked in their direction, attracted by the motion of their rushed approach, and the wind burned face visible through the open jaws of his helm split into a brutal smile. Lashing out with a powerful kick which took the Shaman by surprise and sent him toppling, the Cultist shouted hoarsely at the Drake and barreled back through the portal with the Dragon not far behind.

“Blasted Twilight coward!” The dwarf bellowed after him, leaping back to his feet as they reached the island. His bearded face was severe, the braid hanging from his chin swinging wildly about as he rounded on them. “By the Elements, it’s about time you showed up! Some response time this city has! Gotura’s probably gotten Horde forces to the Maelstrom already-oi!”

For all his complaints about slow response time the Shaman wasn’t pleased to quickly find himself ignored.

The sea spray whipped up from where the rushing waves of the Maelstrom smashed against the jutting rocks was freezing cold where it whipped against her skin, dampening her leather armor and sticking strands of her black hair to her face. Shaman of the Earthen Ring were scattered about on every out cropping locked in combat with more Cultists. Though their numbers were superior and they had an advantage in the terrain the Hammer was slippery, the Cultists involved never remaining in one place for long enough to be backed into a corner, and were aided not only by a small armada of Drakes but the lashing thorny tentacles of something enormous which seemed to have hidden itself from view beneath the ocean’s heaving surface.

The warrior from the Earth Shrine stood only yards away, blades at his sides and posture one of taunting aggression. A taunt which the dwarf was more than willing to go for as he lobbed a bolt of lava at the man and raced after him when he bounded off, swearing all the while.

“Split up and help the Earthen Ring! Push them back!” Even as the order left her lips Tess couldn’t help but think that it sounded an awful lot like something Lorna might say. An order her brother must have given countless times when the feral Worgen had besieged Gilneas city. It was the line of a Warrior, a class much better suited than a Rogue like herself was to be leading any organized force into battle, but there wasn’t time to think of that now.

A bolt of arcane burst at her feet in a fizzle of sparkling blue. Tess avoided the next spell the Mage lobbed in her direction and started towards where the Blood Elf was already engaged with a Tauren and a Draeni. It would be three against one and maybe, if she struck at the right time and took advantage of the Cultist’s split attention, she could bring them down and wring out some answers. Maybe they would all be nothing more than lunatic ravings no more able to hold water than a cracked shield but Tess wanted them anyway. Wanted to hear them for herself, word for word, so that she could start poking holes in every statement that she could and maybe break through to the truth without the Spymaster and his increasingly shady behavior.

The Mage ducked the brutal swing of the totem that the Tauren was holding and deflected the Draeni’s lightning bolt with a well-timed spell of her own. With the Rogue only steps from being in range for a stunning blow the Mage suddenly blinked away, reappearing briefly at the edge of the outcropping before being carried off by one of the Drakes. Tess was not afflicted with the Worgen curse but in that moment she really could have howled in frustration.

“They appeared out of nowhere and immediately started attacking!” The Draeni said before she could think to get a word in. “A Black Wyrm and another Twilight Drake used the chaos to slip passed us into the Realm of the Earth!”

A Black Wyrm? So Wrathion was here? If that was the case, was Anduin with him?

“Stormcaller Mylra was going to go after them but the Drakes aren’t allowing anyone off the ground.” The Tauren rumbled. “Last we saw her she was at the Storm’s Edge Overlook. Get to her if you plan on going after them.”

Where, exactly, was the Storm’s Eye Overlook? Where ever Tess looked there was more of the same: jutting rocks and heaving waves and flailing tentacles and circling Drakes, some with Cultists on their backs. And then there was the question of how she was supposed to get from island to island: there hadn’t been time to retrieve Griffins.

“Just run for the edge: the winds will carry you across!” A Druid in cat form leapt from the shadows of a nearby boulder, its extended claws thudding against the Draeni’s shield. “Go East!”

Running off the edge of the outcropping and hoping she was carried across by the wind as opposed to dropped into the ocean wasn’t exactly an opportune solution but as things stood she didn’t have another option. The sensation of being blown across the chasm was a disconcerting mix of ‘weightless’ and ‘plummeting off a cliff’. The sudden reappearance of the ground beneath her feet  was enough to send her sprawling; picking herself up Tess lunged at the legs of another Cultist and took them to the rock with a thud and a yelp. The strike of her dagger glanced off the Night Elf’s mail bracer. The Hunter’s pet collided with her broadside, knocking Tess over and onto the ground. Blades bit into flesh, blood gushing hot and wet over her hands, and the cat fell with a heavy weight across her body. Tess pushed it off and kept running.

On the next outcropping over an Orc was attempting to make a Gnome stay put long enough to hit it in a display which might have been comical in another situation. The rushing wind lifted her from the rock she stood on but she never made it to the next one.

Talons caught in the straps and buckles of her gear, the momentum of the Drake’s swooping dive throwing her body forwards with a painful jerk. Banking round about on its wide wings the Drake carried her out across the water and released its hold over the eye of the Maelstrom. The entrance to Deepholme.

And it was a long way down. A fall through a surging elemental gateway hundreds if not thousands of feet down. That wasn’t a survivable fall by any standards. She was going to die.

Something wet, cold and strong seized her ankle in a powerful grasp, the motion of her fall redirected upwards as the tentacle hauled her out of the whirlpool and flung her away. She landed on another outcropping with winding force, rolled head over heels and came to a stop at the feet of a hissing Griffin, gasping and in pain but alive.

“I’d say it rescued ya but somethin tells me tha great horken Void squid didn’ mean ta do that. Old Gods are known for havin’ mouths where their eyes should be and eyes everywhere else, na for bein’ charitable.” Mylra said. “Need a hand there?”

“Yes, I think I could use one.” Tess took the Dwarf’s offered hand and allowed the Shaman to pull her to her feet. N’zoth. Purposeful rescue or not, for a handful of seconds a monster from the deepest depths of the Void had been touching her.

It was equal parts disgusting and terrifying.

“An here I’d though’ it was bad enough Thrall had chosen ta run off in tha middle of tha Burning Legion’s attack. Now we’ve got a revisit by old friends from tha Cataclysm an somethin tells me this entire attack is meant as a distraction.” She said. “You here ta help me find out what they’re really up ta?”

“No,” Tess told her, “I’m here for the King. But if he is here he’ll have gone into Deepholme with that Black Dragon so if you’re going down there I’m going with you.”

“Works for me.” The Dwarf said. “It seems like Gotura’s finally got those lazy Orcs ta send some help: between your people and tha Horde we’re distracting tha distraction. If we’re gonna go, now’s tha time. Stormbeak is more than able ta take two of us.”

Riding double on a Griffin through a storm of Drakes and tentacles wasn’t the craziest thing she’d done just that day alone; there was no hesitation in climbing onto the Griffin’s back end and wrapping her arms around the Dwarf in front of her to keep from falling off.

“Hold on, Greymane! It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”

The Griffin shrieked and heaved itself off the rock, lashing out with its claws at the tentacle which shot out in an attempt to keep them on the ground. Tucking its wings and diving between another pair which were rapidly closing together into a barrier. With the rattling sound of agitated scale the massive limbs began slithering back beneath the waves.

“It’s leaving!”

“Aye, but tha’ may not be a good thing. An we’ve still got these damned Dragons swarming tha place.” The Stormcaller said. “ _Incoming!”_

Stormbeak broke into an evasive maneuver which almost threw Tess off its back, the clubbed tail of the Drake which had flown at them whizzing by dangerously close over her right shoulder. Tess turned her head in time to see it and the Warrior on its back vanish into the Maelstrom.

“After them!”

“Way ahead o ya!” Stormbeak banked sharply around and descended into the surging whirlpool, down towards the center where an amber light shown up through the water and into the passageway at the bottom which was logically much too small to fit anything through, most certainly not a Dragon.

Her chest felt like it was being compressed by white hot, ever tightening iron bands. As if her body were being stretched from her wrists and ankles, like the overly sweet taffy Anduin had been eager to introduce her to when she’d first arrived in Stormwind. The sensation let up as suddenly as it had begun and Tess forced her vision back into a state closer to useable. Looking up just in time to see the Twilight Drake dart through a shattered pillar just before the magnetism of the floating pieces snapped them back together with an echoing thud. It was possible, likely even, that this was just a continuance of whatever ploy to distract them they’d engaged in overhead, but it was follow the Cultist or waste time searching through the whole of Deepholme themselves.

The choice was clear.

Griffins were fast, more than equal to the Horde’s wyverns and plenty adequate for normal situations, but this was not a normal situation. The Drake was much faster and the width of its leathery wings allowed it to soar effortlessly for long distances. It was all that Stormbeak could do to keep the beast in sight through the gloom of the Realm of the Earth and, with two of them on its back, was obviously beginning to tire.

Ahead, the Drake mounted Cultist descended to the ground. The Twilight Drake allowed him off, shrank to its smaller form and disappeared after him into a crack in the earth. Stormbeak’s talons kicked up dust as he thudded to the ground. The entrance of the fissure they’d been led to was narrow and jagged and forced them to dismount. Beyond it there was only darkness.

Running in headlong was not a good idea.

The Shaman seemed to reflect this sentiment as she looked over at Tess with shrewd eyes. “Why don’ ya have a sneak around. If we just go chargin' after him tha Warrior might be able ta get tha drop on us.”

“I was just about to suggest the same.” Tess said. “What will you be doing in the mean time? What if more of them come?”

“Stormbeak an I will be fine, Greymane. I can always call up a bit a help if things get out a hand.”

They were surrounded by the element of Earth. Mylra was a powerful Shaman. The Twilight Cultists wouldn’t stand much chance. But they had a Black Dragon with them; admittedly by going into the fissure Tess was more likely to be the one who encountered Wrathion but the point still stood.

“Be careful.” Gripping her daggers, she descended into the dark.

The first thing Tess noticed were the eggs which littered the chamber: shards and dried slime covered the stone around the empty shells. Clearly Dragon, recognizable both by the sheer size and the spines which protruded from the leathered sides. As exactly what the sight meant registered on her, her heart dropped.

She’d found where the previously thought extinct Dragonflight was coming from, and from the sheer number of hatched eggs in that first chamber alone there had to be hundreds of them.

Stepping lightly around the fragments so as not to risk disturbing them and making noise Tess moved deeper into the steadily widening cave. More fragments and dried slime, though the further in she went the less frequent they became. Not that that was of much comfort.

The rest of the eggs had likely just been moved.

There were voices up ahead and pale flickering light. Even more cautiously than before Tess edged up to the final bend and peered around the corner. A pair of massive Faceless Ones plodded around the chamber, transporting the last few eggs from where they sat against the walls to the pulsing Void Rift which had been rent into the center of the floor. Wrathion and a red eyed Blood Elf stood not far from the Rift and the warrior was on his knees in front of a shadowed silhouette.

Even through the near complete darkness Tess recognized Anduin’s figure, lean and lithe and held with the baring of royal birth. He was looking down at the man, though it was impossible to tell what his expression was, and a recently hatched whelp had perched on each of his shoulders. Even after the terrible things the Hammer had most certainly done to him, his highly put upon but ever patient sigh was still the same. As was the motion of pressing his hand to his face.

“I’ll take responsibility for this: by now I ought to realize you find it your calling to go above and beyond what I ask.” Even his voice still sounded the same. “My intention behind saying ‘make certain it gets back to the Alliance and the Horde who you are’ was not to have you, Lazarus, follow the Shaman through the portal into Stormwind but again I take responsibility. I’ll make the parameters more specific in the future.”

“Forgive me, Master.”

“You only did what you were told.” The Old God said. “Vesperiona acted out of hand.”

“The Rogue was causing trouble, Master.” The Dragoness said. “She overstepped, yes, but the Alliance’s interference could have brought them here before the Clutch had been moved to your rookery.”

“Causing trouble?” his head turned and, even though the darkness, Tess felt their gaze meet. Her body freezing beneath the weight of the knowledge she’d been seen. “I’ve absolutely no doubt at all of that. We’re finished here.”

The gibbering of the Faceless Ones echoed off the stone walls as they thudded back through the Rift. The Dragoness and the Warrior followed and soon only the two whelps, the Black Prince and Anduin were still in the cave.

When Wrathion reached for the Priest’s narrow wrist the whelp on his nearest shoulder lunged down his arm and snapped at his fingers. “They’re protective of you already.” The Dragon sounded as if he couldn’t quite decide if he should be jealous or annoyed. “I assume that we have company?”

“Company?” the Priest crossed to the Rift, preparing to step through. “My dear Dragon, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” The Rift slammed shut behind them. Alone, Tess slunk away into the dark.


	13. Dragons All the Way Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Icey/elbrethali for the fanart

“Lurking out here isn’t going to make their injuries heal any faster.”

Anduin turned from where he’d been lingering outside the building of the Twilight Citadel which had all but been named the infirmary. “I can’t help it.” His eyes returned to the door. “I just feel like I should be in there.”

“You’re not a healer anymore, dear one.”

His shoulders tensed and then released again. “I still have the instincts.”

Wrathion took his arm and gently pulled him away. “What you need, Anduin, is a distraction.” He said. “You weren’t even in the Rookery long enough to look around before you took another Rift back here. Even knowing there was nothing you could do.”

“I’m still getting used to it.” His gaze dropped to the rocky ground. “Not having the Light anymore.”

Wrathion let his hand drop along the young Priest’s arm to take his hand. “Come back to the Rookery.” He said. “The Twilight Dragonflight is incapable of doing anything on their own and require your hand to determine who among them will become Wyrms. And the whelps are already fond of you.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “If I didn’t know any better, dear Dragon,” he reached up to gently grab one of Wrathion’s horns, “I’d say you were jealous.”

“I’ve absolutely nothing to be jealous about from some pipsqueak lesser whelps who are nowhere near as intelligent as I was at their age.” The Black Prince huffed, crossing his arms. A curl of smoke rising from behind his fangs. “It’s not as if I’m small enough any more to do such…such inane and pointless things as perch on your head or your shoulders like some sort of parrot!”

Using his grip on Wrathion’s horn Anduin pulled him down and felt more than heard the Black Prince growl against his lips. Clawed fingers digging into the skin of his hips as the Dragon pulled his smaller body closer. The Shadow Priest’s other hand caught in his dark curls. Whining softly as Wrathion’s mouth traveled to his neck and raised a bruise to the surface of his pale skin.

“And here I was thinking your idea for a distraction was visiting the Rookery.” He tilted his head back further to allow the Dragon better access.

“Need I remind you, beloved, who started this?” Wrathion purred against his collar bone.

“You did. You and your jealousy.”

“I am _not_ jealous. It’s simply that you’re mine.” The Black Prince’s grip became possessive. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.” Anduin released his hold on the Dragon’s horn in favor of running his fingers through his coarse black hair. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Wrathion, but don’t Dragons take multiple Consorts?”

“Correct _me_ if I’m wrong,” the Dragon pulled back far enough to shoot him a mild glare, “but aren’t Humans monogamous?”

The young Priest chuckled. “Theoretically.” He said. “And I’m not certain that Old Gods even had partners; my…siblings?...were probably too busy fighting. My point being that if you ever have the desire to take other lovers that’s fine. As long as you remember who your _Prime_ Consort is.”

Wrathion snorted. “Oh, and I’m the jealous one?”

“Oh, but my dear Dragon, you’re mine. There’s a difference.” When the Black Prince rolled his eyes Anduin laughed. “You don’t need to worry about the whelps. Not only are you irreplaceable-as should be evidenced by the fact that I never took another lover even after what you did to me-but I’ve no romantic interest in any of them.”

“But you do have an interest in them?” Wrathion said. “Of what sort?”

“I’ll admit that I may have taken quite a liking to what Zeryxia said while we were down there in that cave.” The blue-tinged blush has crept up his cheeks again but his expression was disturbingly similar to what the Black Prince would have expected from a mother on her nest. “My Rookery. My Clutch. _My_ Broodlings.”

“Wrynns and children? Something tells me this is going to result in a hyper protective disaster. I truly fear for the fool who threatens them and faces an Old God’s true and unfiltered wrath.” He said. “Shall we head back to the Rookery so that you can see your ‘babies’?”

Anduin sent a final look over his shoulder at the door of the infirmary behind him before nodding and allowing himself to be drawn away. “I can do more at the Rookery than I can here.” He said. “Though there was something I wanted to talk with you about.”

“And what would that be?”

“The Blood Stones that you use to communicate with your Black Talons,” Anduin said, “you enchanted them? Did you make the stones yourself or were they naturally occurring gems?”

“They aren’t artificial and yes I enchanted them myself. As a Black Dragon such things are child’s play for me.” Wrathion stretched his wings and flexed his talons against the hard packed ground. “You want to do something similar for the Hammer?”

“For the veterans to whom I’ve assigned command.” Anduin braced his foot against the heel of the Dragon’s forelimb and hoisted himself up onto his back. “It would assist in facilitating proper communication during battles and help me in keeping track of them. Mind Vision is useful outside of combat to keep tabs on one person, but it doesn’t work in groups and leaves me vulnerable so it’s hardly an idle solution.”

“There’s plenty of Nightstone to be found in the Highlands. I’m sure we’ll find something.” With a great sweep of his scarlet wings the Dragon hauled them both into the air. “Which would leave the question of how best to make the Master Stone simple to keep on you.”

“The best option would-Wrathion, what in the Light’s name is that?”

The Black Prince had known that his Consort’s reaction to the sight of the statue would be entertaining. “That,” he said, “is an eighty foot solid pyrite statue. Of you. Which they presumably built while we were away in Pandaria.”

“What…but…why?”

“That’s how idolatry works, beloved.” Wrathion said. “I warned you not to joke about such matters, and you did say they could do with that island what they wished. It’s only natural they’d want to honor their all-important and much loved patron.”

“I know I said that and I stand by it but…what I said can’t possibly have gotten back to them.”

“It didn’t need to. The building of statues in order to commemorate and gain the favor of your Gods is hardly an original concept.” Wrathion tilted his wings and swung them out across the water. “You have to admit that their craftsmanship in this regard is truly impeccable. Let’s take a closer look.”

It wasn’t gold but it looked like it and eighty feet really was excessive. Anduin didn’t know if he should be concerned or impressed that they knew his features well enough to replicate them so completely even without him being there. His image stood atop the broken remnants of the little island, towering high above the ruins of Highbank with Iapetus in hand, pointed towards the horizon as if challenging the sea and sky.”

“I suppose it could be worse,” Anduin said as if the island fell away behind them, Wrathion circling around back towards Grim Batol.

“How so?”

“That statue could be visible from Stormwind.”

The Dragon rumbled a growling laugh. “Dear one, even the Twilight’s Hammer would require more time to pull off something like that.”

“Thankfully.” Anduin slumped down against the plates lining the Black Prince’s neck.

Grim Batol looked incredibly similar to Iron Forge, had Iron Forge been built in an area where there wasn’t any snow. Towers ranging in size were built into the sides of the lands mountainous heel. The enormous stone blocks which made up the hulking entry were edged in thick growths of green moss. Wrathion landed on the curve of the sloping walkway and shrank back into his half-elf form. They clumped up the broken steps and ducked into the slanting doorway.

Shafts of sunlight slanted in through the broken dusty windows but did little to fight off the gloom which clung to the place like a fog. The Demon presence which had been there had only exacerbated its state of disrepair and many of the bridges and walkways had crumbled into near nonexistence. Tattered banners, lank and bleached of color, hung astride stone walk ways. Heavy chandeliers hung askew from iron chains. Marooned on a small island of still standing floor, ringed in by an abyss, was a Griffin head topped pillar which had once been a part of a bridge. Cob webs stretched long across forgotten doorways. Bats fluttered and chirped far overhead.

In the massive room in the heart of the ruined city the unhatched eggs had been clustered, the flock of hatched whelps hovering about filling the chamber with the sharp sound of flapping wings. Mounted on a towering pole, hemmed in by the desiccated wings of what might have been a Red Dragon, was the Twilight’s Hammer’s banner.

One of the whelps turned its tiny head in the direction of their footsteps and shrieked. Close to fifty pairs of eyes were immediately on them and the next thing Wrathion knew a storm of Dragonlings was swarming towards them.

Most people would have taken off running for fear of being eaten alive but Wrathion had long ago realized and come to terms with the fact that Anduin Wrynn was not a ‘normal’ person. In no way concerned for teeth and claws the young Priest allowed himself to be taken to the ground and buried beneath a blanket of Dragons. A few of the larger ones preferred to make a nuisance of themselves by circling Wrathion’s head and screeching until he batted them away, at which point they too landed on top of Anduin.

The Black Prince’s possessive growl was answered by a litany of hisses.

“Dragons?” he scoffed. “More like vultures.”

“That’s hardly a nice thing to say about babies, Wrathion.” The whelps took flight again as he sat up only to resettle themselves once he’d stopped moving. “They only want attention, and no wonder; Zeryxia left them in that cave and now she’s left them down here. Eggs are one thing but they shouldn’t be kept cooped up once they’ve hatched.”

“And where do you suggest putting them?” Wrathion eyed one of the smaller whelps which had landed near his foot and was now chewing on his pants. “The throne room?”

“Well, no, but now that you’ve mentioned it that sounds like a marvelous idea.”

“No it doesn’t!”

Anduin laughed at him and the quaking of his body caused several whelps to squawk in alarm and take flight. His eyes glinted with amusement and clearly said ‘jealous’. The Black Prince huffed and folded his arms. “Alright, children. You need to let me up now.” The whelps on his shoulders and head remained stubbornly in place but a gentle shooing motion was all it took to scatter the rest around his feet like sparrows drawn in with scattered bread crumbs.

They frolicked and rolled around like puppies, more than once landing on top of Anduin’s boots as he picked his way through the Broodling minefield towards the eggs.

“I’m blessed, I suppose, to be possessed of Titan-given maturity.” Wrathion skirted the edge of the peeping mob and sauntered up to his Consort’s side. “Acting like that is quite unbecoming of a Prince.” Anduin’s expression briefly contorted into something rictus. It was gone in the space of a breath but the Dragon still caught it and set a hand on his shoulder. “Anduin?”

“I’m sorry.” He said, not looking at him. “When you said that you sounded like her.”

“Her?” tiny claws dug into the back of his tunic as one of the whelps started climbing up his back.

“Katrana.” He said. “Onyxia. I know that you were referring to yourself but…”

“She’d said that to you?” Wrathion asked. “When?”

“When she caught me attempting to be a child. My crime was daring to play in the royal garden with another boy.” Anduin’s voice had regained a margin of that troubling monotone. He still wasn’t looking at Wrathion, staring instead at the sheen of blue and violet along the shell of the egg he was standing in front of. “I was six.”

“And where was your father during this?” how had Varian, who’d shown himself prone to biting heads off for the crime of looking in Anduin’s direction the wrong way, allowed Wrathion’s older sister to be so cruel as she must have been to have left such an impression so many years afterwards.

“Physically? Busy. Mentally? Not all there. Depressed, severely. It was rare we spent time together back then.” Anduin said. “I was raised largely by my tutors, Onyxia and later by Bolvar.”

“Ah, the Paladin.” Wrathion ignored the whelp which had now successfully summited his head and perched on one of his horns. “So the Paladin was the reason, I assume, that you turned out as well as you did despite my sister’s best efforts.”

Anduin nodded, running his fingers along the smooth sides of one of the spines jutting from the egg. “I firmly believe that he was sent by the Light to help me.” He said. “And it wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.” His finger paused at the point of the spine, an onyx droplet welling at his fingertip. “The last time was in Ny’alotha. That flash.”

“Anduin,” the Dragon said, “there was no flash.” Not one that he’d seen. And, as painful and horrifying as the Ritual had been, Wrathion had watched all of it. He hadn’t been able to look away. “Did you see one?”

“I saw a lot of things: I don’t think what I experienced exactly…happened. At least not in the way we normally think of things happening.” The dribble of ichor had traced along the spine’s full length and had begun to trickle down the shell of the egg. “Where did the Shath’yar come from?”

The Black Prince furrowed his brow. “Where is this coming from?” he asked. “And who’s to say they came from anything?”

“Nothing comes from nothing; something must have created them.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I am sure of that because I felt it, Wrathion. For a moment, before the Light cut me free as my connection to it collapsed, I felt the ties. Heard…something. Mortals answer to the whispers of the Shath’yar but the Shath’yar answer to the whispers of whatever those things were.”

“And what do you hear now?”

“The same thing that I’m sure you do.” Anduin said. “Silence. And I suppose I’m glad for that much. If I do go mad it’ll be something I did all by myself.”

Taken by surprise, the Black Prince snorted. “Just when I thought your sense of humor was predictable, beloved.”

“Predictability leads to death on the field of battle.” The former King informed him sagely, removing his injured finger from the spine and inserting it into his mouth to stop the bleeding.

“I suppose that’s true enough.” He said. “Is that one of your father’s lines?”

“I’ve heard that line from so many people at this point, dear Dragon, that I don’t remember who it originated from.” He said. “On to why we’re here: you made a comment towards selecting Wyrms which I believe has some merit.”

“Are we calling Zeryxia over from the Obsidian Forest, then?” The partly regrown once battleground between the Red Dragons and his own Flight had been claimed by the Twilight Drakes since their return to the Highlands; under normal circumstances the fact wouldn’t have particularly bothered Wrathion but he’d prefer not to be used as a climbing post for any longer than was necessary.

Glancing over at the whelps on his horns-the one which was originally there had since multiplied into three-the Shadow Priest smirked. “We can speak with her about it later. I’ll just run it by you first.” He said. “We’ll get out of here sooner that way.”

Small miracles. “I’m glad to be of help, dear one. You played sound board enough for me in Pandaria.”

“The current Drakes will remain Drakes: Wyrms may be more powerful but they’re also less easily ridden and my Hammer needs affective mounts.” He said. “The whelps who display any sort of particular ability will be aged fully into Wyrms. That goes for both those currently hatched and the ones that haven’t hatched yet.”

“Your reasoning is sound, Anduin, but perhaps consider having a few of the current Drakes aged forward.” Wrathion said. “None of the whelps are quite old enough that they’d begin manifesting any such abilities and we may need their power before then.”

“Who would you suggest?”

“The survivors of the Cataclysm have proven themselves durable, at least.” The Black Prince said tartly.

“Zeryxia, Goriona, Sombrax, Evian and Alberon?”

“I don’t bother keeping track of most of their names.”

“They’re your cousins.”

“So are the Red flight.” Wrathion retorted.

“And which are worse?”

The Black Prince scoffed. “At least the Twilight’s are useful.” He said. “Shall we go give Zeryxia the news that will inflate her head even more?”

“We shall,” the Shadow Priest chirped, “just as soon as I’ve brought my babies through to the throne room.”

“Anduin!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A massive Clutch of Twilight Dragon eggs, that was what the Hammer had been trying to distract them from, and from the number of shells left behind the population of magically vampiric Dragons could have been truly enormous. The Cultists had done their work well: they’d appeared suddenly, attacked ruthlessly, and vanished again with only the most minor injuries; they’d kept attention away from the Clutch until it was too late and the cavern used to incubate them had been cleared out.

Anduin had been there. Or, at least, Anduin under N’zoth’s control. And the God of Slumber, it appeared, was a very good actor. Had Tess not known any better, from the way he’d spoken and the words he’d used, it would have been easy to believe her friend was acting free of any influence at all.

Now she didn’t know what to think.

“The Earthen Ring elected to handle the matter on their own?”

The clear water of Olivia’s Pond rippled in the soft breeze. Off somewhere in the surrounding trees a bird twittered. “Their decision was understandable.” Tess said. “Tensions were high between us and the Horde forces which came through from Orgrimmar and the Shaman didn’t want another fight on their hands. On top of that Therazane isn’t overly tolerant of ‘beings not of the Earth’ which aren’t Shaman, and at this point most classes are drawing further and further away from their Factions of origin."

“Perhaps greater willingness to work together will benefit our efforts to defend Azeroth against the Legion.” Broll said. “But more likely it will only push us further towards ruin. What of the Uncrowned?”

“Rogues don’t have much of a reputation for trustworthiness or working together.”

The Druid had no comment on that matter. The spread of green leaves overhead broke the late day sunlight into a dappling of black and gold against the grass. “You saw something while you were in Deepholme with Mylra. Something more than Dragon eggs.”

“He was there. Anduin.” Tess said. “It was too dark in that cave to see his face but he didn’t sound…well, what would one expect an Old God to sound like?” Would she have rather the Priest have sounded like the monster that was using him as a mouthpiece? Tess wasn’t sure. “It’s almost sad; I never thought I’d feel sorry for that Dragon but N’zoth is using Anduin to play with him like a child’s toy.” Somewhat bitterly she added “it seems like Wrathion loved him after all, despite what he did.”

“Are you certain it was acting?”

Tess’ head snapped around. “Oh, by the Light, not you too!” She said. “If he was under his own influence he wouldn’t stay with the Twilight’s Hammer. Wouldn’t leave everyone to worry like this. I’ve already had this conversation with Valeera.”

Never mind the fact that returning as an Old God or Old God like being would have caused mass upheaval and wide spread panic. Perhaps to the point of running him out of the city with torches.

“He may not be under his own influence. Not entirely.” Broll said. “But Anduin may have seen reason to stay with the Twilight’s Hammer in his altered state. Because the Alliance doesn’t have a history of being terribly accepting and because he may see his new power as a means.”

“To what end?”

“What he’s always wanted.” Broll said. “With the terrible strength of a creature even the Titans are said to have feared at his fingertips and a force at his feet without the desire to oppose his will, free of grudges and special interests in continuing conflict between the Factions, he would perhaps have found himself in a better position to achieve peace than ever before.”

The Gilnean Princess was painfully aware of the fact that that ‘grudges and special interests’ comment was a thinly veiled reference to her father. “So you think he isn’t dangerous?”

And perhaps there was some insubstantial evidence of that. The Warrior’s appearance in Stormwind hadn’t been on Anduin’s order, though it also hadn’t been strictly against it. The Hammer hadn’t killed or even badly injured anyone when they’d attacked the Earthen Ring. He’d saved her from falling to her death and, despite having seen her in that cave, had said nothing on the matter.

“No. If anything, this would make him even more dangerous.” Broll said. “To achieve peace he’ll want to stop the fighting and may resort to doing so through any means. If he comes to see either Faction as an obstacle to that, he may be driven to destroy us both.”

“But that’s only an assumption.”

The Druid briefly showed his fangs. “Yes, an assumption.” He said. “But if it is true, shutting the Twilight’s Hammer down has just become an even more immediate concern.”


	14. Boralus and Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gift art by icey/elbrethali

“You’re certain about this? About me not going with you I mean? Surely you’ve never been to Kul’tiras before.”

“Wrathion,” exasperated, tapping his fingers against Iapetus’ shaft, Anduin looked over at the Dragon who was attempting to make his nervous fluttering less obvious, “are you attempting to imply that you _have_ been to Kul’tiras before?”

“I’ve been a great many places, dear one, but no. Kul’tiras is not one of them.” The Black Prince folded his hands in front of him. “Still, we are partners are we not? Don’t partners stand together?”

“Partners do stand together,” Anduin said as whelp claws scratched against the back of his throne. “But as glad as I am to see you putting forth such an obvious effort to convince me you’ll still be there when I turn around I’d rather not have you bring a Blue Dragon down on my head while I’m trying to break through to Jaina. It’ll be hard enough as it is.”

Ah, yes, Kalecgos. Wrathion hadn’t really interacted with the former Blue Aspect in the past and didn’t know much about him but supposed the kind of person he was wouldn’t matter as in that situation as all the Blue would see was an Old God posing a threat to his mate.

It would ultimately turn out badly for Kalecgos, more so than for Anduin, but Wrathion supposed he could still see why the Shadow Priest would have preferred to avoid unnecessary Dragon slaying.

“After what I heard took place in Theramore under Garrosh’s order I can understand her anger at the Horde.” He said. “Even if it is, perhaps, a bit gratuitous to seek revenge against the entire Faction when the directly responsible parties are all now either imprisoned or dead. How likely do you think it is that she’d even consider aiding our efforts to end the inter-faction fighting?”

“Not very. Especially considering the fact that calling it ‘parting on bad terms’ would be fairly mild.” He said. “In fact, she all but accused me of sympathizing with my father’s murderers.”

“Gul’dan killed your father.” Anduin’s response was a growl made low in the back of his throat. “She sounds irrational. Why are we even bothering to approach her?”

“Because she’s a powerful Archmage.”

“So is Khadgar.”

“We’re approaching him as well. Just not tonight.”

“But why not just him? Why waste the effort?”

When the Shadow Priest looked over at him again his expression was sad. “She’s family.”

“You seem to have terrible luck with family, dear one.” Wrathion said. “What will you do if she refuses?”

“Leave.” He said, staff clicking against stone as he rose to his feet. “I’ll force no one into joining me.”

Wrathion refrained from mentioning it was possible that some members of the Hammer had already been forced into joining the Cult. After all, Anduin’s policy was one which could hardly be retroactively applied to any real affect.

“I recognize and concede, reluctantly, the truth of the matter that Dragons can sense Dragons and as such it’s unwise I accompany you,” he said, “but please tell me you’re not planning to go alone.”

“Not alone, no. I’m taking Lazarus with me.”

“Because armor like that isn’t liable to stand out like a flaming pillar.”

“He’ll be wearing the armor that he still has from before joining the Hammer, by my request.” Anduin said. “Speaking of, Kaliri is almost finished with a much more visually appealing set and is in the process of making more. My warriors have a uniform.”

“It was only to be expected they’d take the ‘wolf pack’ business well and truly over board.”

“Oh, and Baerell has started work on dragging those Nightstones out of the ground and cutting them. We’ll only need a small handful, so you’ll at least have that project as a distraction while I’m gone.”

“At least take Right with you as well.” Wrathion disregarded the comment on the Nightstones entirely. “I’d ask you to take Left too but considering who you’re meeting its likely better to stick to Alliance Races.”

“So that you can spy through the Bloodstone?”

“So that I can keep an eye on things and know you’re safe.” Rationally Wrathion knew he would be, that he was no longer as fragile as he’d once been, but the assurance was still something he couldn’t help needing. To some degree, he hated that weakness.

“If it will help you to relax I’ll bring Right as well. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to know this particular mission has nothing to do with insects.” If anything, his body guard’s recently revealed fear only went to show that Wrathion would always be able to find something knew and amusing about those around him. No matter how well he thought he knew them. “Is Zeryxia still preening?”

“They’re _all_ still preening!” Wrathion spat sparks along with his words. “The ‘superior Dragonflight’, they call themselves, and yet they’d have sat around as Drakes forever if left to their own devices! Oh, but now that changes? Pah! A truly superior Dragon acts on his own agency.”

“Specifically his?” Anduin bumped their shoulders together as they exited the throne room and smirked. “If I didn’t know any better and wasn’t aware of just how _humble_ you are, Black Prince, I might have fallen under the mistaken impression that you were referring to yourself.”

“At least _I_ am not insufferable, dear one!” The Black Dragon huffed as they started across the Sanctum of the Ascended. “The only one of them in the least bit tolerable is Goriona, and that’s only because her utter failure not only to protect my father but to die in the attempt _actually_ managed the impossible and convinced her that she’s not the next best thing to…to…!”

“Sliced bread?”

“Such a Human analogy!”

“But it’s apt?”

“Why, more than apt! And that’s the truly unfortunate part.” He said. “I’ll admit that their powers, in limited and rare situations, are mildly impressive. But all the use is strangled out of them by their focus on proving which one of them is the best.”

“Ah, now I think I see the problem here.” The tongues of lava dripping down along the railing of the Burning Corridor’s staircase cast amber shadows along the fabric of Anduin’s overcoat. “’The best’ is your title.”

“The difference between them and me, my dear one, is that _I_ -.”

“Don’t have anyone to butt heads with over the matter?”

“Have proven my claim to that title. _They_ do nothing but blather and lay in the sun!”

“As they’re completely welcome to do while there’s nothing else that needs doing.” Anduin said. “You could join them, if you’d really like to argue that out. Just remember, dear Dragon, that actions speak louder than words.”

“Hah! Proof! I act more than they do!” The Black Prince put a purposeful swagger into his step as they entered the Bastion’s antechamber. “I knew I chose well in you, beloved. You, at least, can see the truth of a _proper_ Dragon when it’s in front of you.”

Anduin was too busy smothering laughter to mention that of equal importance was the wisdom to know when _not_ to act.

Lazarus had indeed changed out the ridiculous wolf armor for something more…well, inconspicuous wouldn’t be quite the right word. It was Tanari armor: bracers, armlets and spaulders; a high plate belt and skirt-like leg plates inlaid with metal scales in vibrant shades of red and green. In a desert environment, where it was necessary to balance defense with not dropping dead from heat, such armor made sense (though that still said nothing for the coloring) but now it just translated to far too much bare skin for his liking.

The Black Prince had to quiet a growl when the Shadow Priest looked his escort over in appreciative surprise. “I haven’t seen such colorful armor since everyone came back from the Outland Campaign.” Anduin said. “It’s certainly…eye-catching. Are you cold?”

“Minor discomforts are hardly of concern, Master.” The scaling clanked as he moved, crossing a bracered wrist over his chest in an unfamiliar salute. “Though it has been years since I’ve worn this. As used to full plate as I’ve become, it feels…light.”

“We won’t be in Boralus long.” Wrathion wasn’t certain if the assurance was more aimed at the Warrior or him.

At least Right would be nearby to diffuse any problems which would potentially arise when such exotic dress inevitably drew attention. The Black Prince also allowed himself to feel mildly vindicated by the disbelieving side-eye his body guard was sending the other Human.

Honestly, the Twilight’s Hammer had no grasp on the concept of subtlety! He’d have drawn less attention in the wolf suit!

“Are you wearing that?” the Dragon gestured at Anduin’s current dress.

“I’m changing once we’re through the Rift.” He said. “And you really don’t need to worry so much; in Stormwind we’d be swarmed just for what we’re wearing but Boralus is home to the largest trade market on Azeroth. People come from all over on a daily basis and when everyone stands out together no one does.”

There was some comfort in that. “You’re a bit too pale to pass as a Tanari, dear one.”

“Naturally.” Anduin pulled a small orb from his bag and playfully waved it in his direction. “I have it handled, Wrathion. Do trust me, please.”

Having the once King ask for his trust rather than inform him that Wrathion didn’t have his was, at least, something of a novel change. “I do trust you, beloved.” He said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

After assuring the Black Prince he’d be careful Anduin followed Lazarus through the Rift, Right trailing somewhat reluctantly behind him.

The architecture had a distantly Gilnean flavor, if looked at from the right angle, and the cool air smelled strongly of the sea. In the wake of Jaina’s departure years ago many of Boralus’ citizens had left Kul’tiras, and it seemed that her return had not brought them back. The city’s eastern side was entirely abandoned and in varying degrees of disrepair. Sad as it was, Anduin couldn’t help but be relieved he was afforded the chance to not have to change behind a tree; he knew Right would never so much as look at him that way even if she weren’t under Wrathion’s employ, but even in spite of Lazarus having proven himself the least prone to inappropriate action out of the entire Hammer-which was in large part why he was the one he worked with most closely-Anduin wasn’t willing to put temptation passed him.

“We’ll head towards the market in a moment. Wait here while I step inside and change.” Knowing by now not to expect much in the way of a reply Anduin simply forced the door of the nearest house open and stepped inside. The smell of mold and mildew was almost strong enough to knock him off his feet and his nose curled involuntarily. Quickly opening the bag he’d brought with him Anduin pulled off his over coat and clothes, changing them out for the spares he’d packed: pants and a sleeveless shirt in tones of red and amber, a red and gold cloth to tie over the bottom half of his face and a hooded cloak to hide the rest. Perhaps it was going a bit far on top of the orb of disguise but he couldn’t afford the risk that someone would recognize him on the street.

Activating the orb and drawing out a mirror Anduin examined himself: what could be seen of his face looked the same but his skin eyes and hair had darkened into something vaguely passable as Tanari in origin. It would have to work.

When he reemerged Right had disappeared from sight but he knew that she was still somewhere nearby. Lazarus was right where he’d left him, the only sign of his tension the fact that his hand rested against the hilt of one of his swords. Having been instructed prior to their arrival to refrain from referring to him by such titles as ‘Master’ and ‘my Lord’ the Warrior restrained his acknowledgement of Anduin’s return to a nod.

“Jaina will likely be staying in the city’s Mage Tower, if there is one, and Proudmoore Hold if there’s not. I wouldn’t be surprised to find her out when we arrive: it’s for the best I await her return inside.” He said as they started towards the market in the distance. “Please wait outside: if I bring you in with me she might mistake my intentions and I’d rather avoid having to hurt her.”

“Your Dragon would want you to take that Rogue with you, at least.”

Anduin nodded. “You’re right. As long as she stays out of sight, her ability to do as such something of which I’ve no doubts, I don’t see a problem with it.” He said. “Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 The sun had just begun to set over the waters of Boralus’ harbor by the time she’d finished her work for the day, staining the sky a patchwork of wine and gold. Though Jaina had little doubt that the market district was still seething with activity and would likely continue to do so well into the late hours of the night the streets of the city proper had largely emptied. A few people could be seen moving from one place to another, mostly members of the city guard on patrol, but no one loitered.

Which was in large part why the Tanari casually leaned against a light post, arms folded across his massive chest and ankles crossed, drew her attention. Dressed in full desert armor despite the sea side chill he blinked at her with all the interest a well fed lizard sunning on a rock might spare to an insect crawling about in the sand near its perch. To most he’d seem calm at her approach, but she’d known Varian long enough to be able to tell when a Warrior was spring loaded to pounce at a moment’s provocation.

Generally she tried to avoid action on stereotypes but Wastewalkers were able thieves with a tendency towards sticky fingers and violent pillaging. Finding one alone on the street at night’s edge in a section of the city most visitors for trade didn’t venture to was more than a little bit suspicious.

“Can I help you with something?”

He considered her languidly, brown eyes a shade darker than his wind tanned skin and hair a dusted sandy color. “I’m waiting on someone, Arch Mage.” His voice was a low rasp. “Once he’s finished with his business we’ll be on our way. I trust that you have business to?”

That walked the dangerous edge of a threat. “I’m sure the guard has noticed you by now.”

His lips curled, but not into a smile. “I’m up to nothing, Kul’tiran witch. Your company has already had to amuse himself in your chambers for long enough. I suggest you not keep him waiting any longer.”

“Excuse me?” someone had broken into her chambers and been lurking there for hours and the guards hadn’t noticed? What sort of ‘business’ was that?

“My company is waiting in your chambers with an offer. I’ve no further words for you.” And that had marked the decisive end to their conversation. Despite Jaina’s best efforts the Warrior remained taciturnly silent, unimpressed by threats and magic, and stared passed her as if she wasn’t there. Finally faced with the choice of continuing to attempt to drag a reply out of the Tanari in front of her or put a stop to whatever was going on in the Hold Jaina left the man to his chosen post and rushed inside.

She found the guards who usually stood outside the doors of her rooms sprawled out on the ground, dead asleep and impossible to rouse. Gooseflesh breaking out across her skin and senses on high alert, Jaina crept forward and nudged the cracked door the rest of the way open.

Empty, at least at first glance. It was too dark to clearly tell. Frost chilling her fingertips she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, cutting off the light from outside in hopes of forcing her eyes to adjust faster and reveal whatever might be lying in wait. Her desk, slightly less cluttered than the one she’d spent most of the day working at; once familiar furniture which now suddenly looked menacing; a flutter of motion which turned out to only be the curtains hung astride the open window.

“You don’t need to worry about your guards; they’ll be fine by morning.” She whirled around, catching sight of a familiar silhouette rising from the chair he’d been reclined in. “Though I’m afraid I can’t guarantee their sleep will be restful. It is called the Emerald _Nightmare_ , after all.”

“Anduin!” The letter from Stormwind, detailing the kidnapping of her ‘nephew’ by the Black Prince. Kalec’s warning of what the former Aspects feared had happened before he’d left for Wyrmrest Temple. So the man she’d spoken with outside had been a Hammer Cultist? “What are you doing here?”

The missing King moved slowly around the back of the chair, his motion slinking and fluid as a cat’s with no trace of the supposedly incurable limp. It was inhuman, the way he moved, and combined with how the shadows clung to him it only made her unease grow. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re not happy to see me. We didn’t part on the best of terms.” He’d reached the window now. Running an ungloved hand along the sill; revealing enough of his arm to the dying light that she could make out black nails and translucent pearly skin. “I’m here to talk. To ask for your-.”

“I’ll join the Twilight’s Hammer if you eradicate the Horde; after all they’ve done I want them gone. I don’t care about anything else.”

Now it was his turn to whip around, the shadows giving way enough that she caught a glimpse of spiral eyes: only the barest hint of their original blue remained amongst the shattered spokes of color.

“What? Destroy-?” gathering himself, he shook his head. “Hell’s bells, I think you misunderstand.”

“What am I misunderstanding?”

“My entire motivation for coming here to speak with you.” His indignation sounded the same as it had before the Hammer had gotten to him and made him something else. “Yes, I’m asking for your help but I’ve no interest in it if it comes at such a cost. I want an ordered Azeroth not a senseless massacre and won’t simply wipe out the entire Horde because of what Garrosh and a handful of others did in the heat of war!”

“The heat of war?”

“You know as well as I do that that there had been posturing and rising hostilities for months before then. Maybe Garrosh acted out of hand but Theramore was not as innocent as you would see fit to claim.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about! And you’ll never have anything close to ‘order’ while they’re around.”

“What happened to you, Jaina?” The snap in his voice wasn’t sharp. “I’ve only ever known you, until a few years ago, to be reasonable. Being angry and vengeful against those who had a hand in what happened is one thing, but throwing away your values of peace and tolerance so readily only goes to show the truth that they never really mattered in the first place.”

_“I sacrificed my own family for the sake of a peace which mattered so little to Thrall that he threw it to the dogs! And I will not stand here and be questioned by a monster wearing the face of a boy who was too sheltered from the truth of the world to know that not everyone is good!”_

“A monster?” his fingers curled around the sill, the wood creaking and threatening to buckle under the strain of his grip. The Hold shook. Something serpentine moved in the dark. “That’s what you see me as?”

“It’s what you are.” He hadn’t sounded hurt when he’d spoken but from how close the sill was to snapping she knew her words had hit home. Satisfying as that knowledge was, the lack of reaction only made her biting anger seethe hotter.

“So you’re content to use a ‘monster’ on your enemies for your own gain, caring nothing for the fact that you once thought of him as family?”

“I stopped seeing you as family weeks ago. You were dead to me the moment you turned your back on your father by forgiving his murderer!”

Whatever the serpentine forms were, they lashed harder at her words. Something toppled over and broke. “Gul’dan murdered my father and I have _not_ forgiven him.” That snarl didn’t sound like him at all, too low and too warped to belong to anything that had come from Azeroth, and it should have scared her. If she’d had something more than denied revenge to live for it might have. She was nettling a Shath’yar, a beast which even the Titans had feared, which was getting progressively angrier. In that moment all she wanted to do was push until it snapped. “He will learn that the pain of flesh is fleeting: true torment lasts forever. But there is time for that and more. I will not allow you to push me into doing something you’ll regret having brought down on yourself once you’re thinking straight again.” He released the window and moved back across the room, the floors creaking as the dark sweeping limbs retreated out of sight; stepping around and behind her to the door. “I thought I knew you, Jaina Proudmoore. I see, now, that I was wrong.”

For a moment he lingered in the doorway, watching her with those strange resentful eyes, then he stepped over the fallen forms of her men and disappeared into the night outside. Leaving Jaina alone in the dark.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You’re back.” Wrathion grinned as he caught sight of Anduin’s form emerging from the Rift, doing his best to keep the wandering of his gaze to the figures following behind him from being too obvious. Lazarus, still looking ridiculous. Right, her expression kept inscrutable: she hadn’t once contacted him so the Black Prince thought it safe to assume that nothing had gone terribly wrong. “I take it that Lady Proudmoore won’t be joining us?”

The Shadow Priest didn’t answer him, didn’t even glance in his direction, just swept passed with all the expressiveness of glazed ceramic and disappeared into the hallways beyond the throne room. Red eyes went immediately to the Rogue who’d remained standing nearby, no doubt expecting his questions, while Lazarus clattered away presumably to redon the wolf suit. “What happened?”

“About what was expected: she demanded that he destroy the Horde in return for her aid.”

Expected indeed. “And he refused?” that explained why the Mage wasn’t with them but not Anduin’s reaction.

Right treated him to an even gaze and said flatly “I’m not saying a damn thing that will lead to you flying back there. Just go comfort him: Anduin kept himself in check but what she said obviously upset him.”

Casting a glance at his body guard and then at the door, Wrathion briefly weighed his options before dropping the matter and heading after Anduin.

He found him exactly where he expected to, and the Dragon knew enough to be well aware it wasn’t a good sign. Knelt beside his father Anduin had assumed the pose Wrathion had learned at the tavern to connect with prayer to the Light. The prayer itself, if he was even doing more than going through the motions, would amount to nothing but there was likely some solace to be found in the familiar pose.

Anduin leaned into him when Wrathion wrapped around his shoulders, tucking his face into the side of the Black Prince’s neck.

“What did she say to you?”

“You’ll just go running off to confront her, Wrathion. It isn’t worth it.”

The Dragon begged to differ, gently cupping the back of his Consort’s neck. “I want you to tell me so I can help you.”

Anduin shook his head and scooted closer. wrapping his arms around Wrathion’s waist. “Anything you say would be something you’ve said before.” He said. “And she didn’t mean it. I know she didn’t mean it. She’s just angry.”

“Anger,” Wrathion said, “is no excuse for hurting you.”

“Aren’t we allowed our times of weakness?”

The Black Prince sighed, pulling the former King the rest of the way onto his lap. “Even after everything that’s happened,” he said, “you’re still far too forgiving for your own good.”


	15. Son of the Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry about the long wait. Between finals and other things I've been a bit distracted but hopefully there should be at least one update to this every other week.  
> In other news, apparently I've fallen down the rabbit hole of Anduin rare pairs (as is already evidenced by Blood of Lions as, from what I can tell, Anduin X Darion isn't a common pairing) and have been working on a Anduin x Sylvanas fic called The Wind and the Lion which won't be released until I've finished the draft but in that regard I'm looking for one or two beta readers for it. If anyone is interested in doing that you can find my email on my profile (there will be a small note that says betas are currently closed but disregard that as it's referencing my HP fics)

“ _Sanguinar_!” There was nothing quite like the indigence of a frustrated Fire Mage. Taneil Flarewood was a tall, broad shouldered Blood Elf with umber hair worn in short spikes and fel green eyes which looked almost feral where they sat atop his sharp cheekbones. Red and orange robes billowing around his form in a manner which was itself similar enough to flames that it sent one of the librarians skittering over before realizing there was no immediate risk of the shelves burning down and returning to their work he stalked up to her, expression set into a pouting glare and a growl rumbling in the back of his throat.

Half buried underneath a pile of open books and crumpled papers which she’d thrown around in her frustration, Valeera raised her head enough to blink up at him through a gap between a stack of unused parchment and a tome which had looked promising until it wasn’t anymore and then received the correspondingly deserved treatment of being discarded as of no further worth to her. “Don’t shout, Flarewood, we’re in a library.”

She’d known him since before she could walk, had lost contact with him for the most part during the portion of her life spent fighting in the pits as a part of Rehgar’s team alongside Varian and Broll, and had reconnected with him about a year after they’d successfully broken free. Prior to Proudmoore’s going off the deep end he’d lived in Dalaran and after the ejection of the Sunreavers he’d returned to Silvermoon and had remained there even after the Horde had been permitted back into the City of Magic. Though Valeera had to admit to not being terribly fond of his choice of Faction their relationship remained unhindered for it and for that much she was grateful.

Even if her efforts were paying nothing back for her time, at least Silvermoon presented her with a place where she’d be allowed to try. As much as she loved the Wrynns the Human race was terribly judgmental and attempting to look into what she was would have been at least somewhat liable to see her tossed out of Stormwind as a heretic.

The Mage, apparently, wasn’t very appreciative of her cheek because if anything his expression became more intensely annoyed and he planted his hands firmly on his hips. His stance clearly broadcast the very essence of ‘scolding’. “Yes,” he drawled, unamused, “a library not a place of residence.” His glowing eyes narrowed. “You informed me when you arrived, out of nowhere might I add, and while entirely distraught about some Human I’ve never met nor have any particular reason to care about, that you would be depending in my hospitality for an unknown amount of time. Yet I haven’t seen you since! Have you _slept_? Have you _eaten_? What are you even _doing_?”

“Research.” Valeera sighed heavily, picking at one of the pages of her notes in irritation. “And yes, I’ve eaten and slept…once or twice.”

“Anar’alah belore, you’ve spent enough time here!” He said. “If Silvermoon’s library had what you were looking for surely you’d have found it already. What are you even trying to do?”

“Translation. Of a name. I need to know what it means because it might prove that he’s still himself. If he is then I can’t sit back and let him face the Legion alone while the Alliance is after him under the mistaken impression that he’s been transformed into some sort of _monster_!”

“Translate?” he repeated. “Out of what language?”

The Rogue looked around before she answered, ensuring that there was no one lingering amongst the nearby shelves to overhear, and then said “Shath’yar.”

Taneil’s expression darkened and he muttered a curse under his breath. “You’ve wasted your time doing all of this. There’d be nothing of that sort on the shelves of this city’s library, but I think I may know of somewhere you can find that information.”

Valeera straightened so abruptly that she almost sent the chair she was sitting in tipping backwards. “Where?”

“Not here. And I’m not going to let you go running off tonight.” He said. “You’re going to eat a proper meal and sleep for a full night and if I have to trap you in an ice block to force your compliance then I will! Now come away from there.”

Worthless as the texts and documents spread across the table in front of her were Valeera found herself more than a little bit hesitant to abandon them. After a drawn out moment, she forced herself to her feet and began the hasty process of clearing the heavily cluttered table. “Yes, mother.” She grumbled, uncrinkling and stacking the papers that she’d taken notes on and closing and stacking the yellowed dusty tomes.

Once she’d finished Taneil flicked his wrist and magic sparked at his fingers, sending the books whizzing off to their proper shelves all on their own.

“Is that everything?” he asked.

“Just about.” She shuffled the stack of notes that she was holding once again. “Though I don’t need these anymore: all they amounted to was a waste of ink and paper.”

She nearly hit the ceiling when the papers erupted into flame, the ashes slipping through her fingers and onto the floor only to be wicked away by yet another spell. The Mage responded to her glare with a highly amused smirk.

“Shall we be heading back to my home, then?” he asked, turning and starting back towards the door. Grumbling under her breath about Mages and their inherent tendency for showing off Valeera followed him out.

The night outside was dark and warm, humidity hanging in the air like a thin pall. Insects chattered in the hedgerows and other bits of greenery coaxed from the golden stones of the street by Magic. On a nearby doorstep a yellow cat sat cleaning its claws, watching them pass with disinterest. One of the enchanted brooms charmed to keep the city clean floated passed them with the scrape of ragged bristles against the uneven ground.

The windows of Taneil’s house were dark as they approached but candles sparked to life as he opened the door and stepped inside, holding it for her. His silver Dragonhawk, Uruloki, raised its head from its perch and rasped at them sleepily before rustling its wings and curling up again. The Fire Mage marched her into the kitchen, sat her down at the table and placed a portion of the meal he’d made earlier-Valeera was too tired to ask what it was and too hungry to particularly care-with a half aggressive “eat!” before flopping down into one of the other chairs himself and dropping his face into his hands. “Do you take care of yourself while I’m not around to babysit you? Because what I’ve seen tonight has left me with the stark impression that the answer to that question is no.”

“Normally I do, thank you Taneil. I am not a child.” She grumbled around the fork in her mouth. “Anduin’s all I have left of the closest thing to family I can clearly remember so forgive me for having more pressing concerns than food and no time to sleep. You said that you might know where I can finally get my hands on the information that I’m looking for.”

“I know of someone you’re better off turning to. Well, a group of someones more accurately. The Cult of Forgotten Shadow.” He said. “They’re a Faction of the Forsaken: Priests who practice Shadow Magic. If anyone would be able to translate Shath’yar for you it’d be one of them.”

“Where can I find them?” she asked, barely keeping a hold of her fork. “Tirisfal Glades, presumably, but what part? The Under City? Brill?”

“Death Knell.” He told her. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to get them to talk to you, at least so I hear. They’re rumored to enjoy a chance to discuss their beliefs.”

“If sitting through a sermon on why the Shadow is an alternative or even preferable over the Light is the only price I have to pay to have someone finally tell me what ‘Al’gothoth’ means so be it.” With her plate cleaned Valeera set her fork down and rose to her feet. “I’ll turn in, now, if that’s alright.”

“Perfectly. Don’t go running off first thing in the morning to use the translocator orb. I want to use my last chance to make you eat something again before you dive into a sea of madness after your Human.” Waving his hand rather dismissively, Taneil rose from the table as well. “I’ll turn in as well. Goodnight, Valeera.”

“Goodnight.” She exited the kitchen and made her way to the sitting room, curling up on the large bed couch she knew full well her friend was barely home often enough to use.

It was a long night, and when sleep finally came it wasn’t restful. Hours of lying listlessly, tossing and turning, throwing the covers off of herself and then pulling them back on again, repeating the process until the sunrise tinted the horizon gold. At first light and unable to take it anymore she left the sitting room and propped herself up at the kitchen table. Another few hours passed. She must have fallen asleep where she sat because Valeera found herself jolting awake when a plate and mug were set in front of her with the clank of ceramic against wood.

“I really hope you spent at least a few hours on the couch.” Taneil said, Uruloki fluttering at his shoulder.

“I spent most of the night on the couch, yes. I couldn’t sleep so at first light I moved here to wait for you to wake up. Knowing you, Flarewood, you’ve rigged your door with arcane traps to keep me here and I currently lack the motor skills necessary to diffuse them.”

“’Arcane traps’?” he rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Sanguinar. All attempting to walk out the door would have done is teleport you back to the couch.”

“ _So you did do something_!”

He smirked at her around the rim of his mug and fed the Dragonhawk a piece of muffin. “You know how to get to the translocator orb? And you know how to get to Death Knell from the Ruins of Lordaeron?”

“You act like I’ve never been here and have no sense of direction.”

“I hadn’t realized you’d been to Tirisfal before.” He said.

“I _can_ read a map, you know.”

“Do you have one on you?”

“What did you think I did, run around blindly in the hopes of happening upon where I want to go?” she snorted. “Unlike a certain someone, Taneil, I can’t rely on Magic to solve all of my problems.”

“If one has a tool with which they _can_ solve all their problems, Valeera, would it not be foolish to let it gather dust?”

“It’s also foolish to rely on it to the point that all other skills become atrophied. What will you do if you lose your magic?”

“It’s not something that can simply be misplaced.” He said.

“Thank you, Taneil, for your help. I think I’m going to head out now.” She said, rising from the table. “I may see you again, but…I might not.”

“I hope this Human is worth it.” He said, watching her cross the kitchen and head towards the front door. “Good luck.”

In spite of the season the morning air was frigid. Valeera saw very few people as she made her way towards Sunfury Spire. As much of a time saver as the translocator orb was, Valeera only needed to use it once to be absolutely certain that she preferred flying. Leto seemed to agree, the griffin’s white feathers on end and blue eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“I don’t like it either.” She told the griffin, pulling herself up onto its back. “We don’t have to go very far from here. With any luck I can get you back to your master soon.”

At the mention of Anduin the griffin perked up and lifted off so abruptly that Valeera almost toppled off its back end. With a mist of rain pelting down from the cloud choked sky she unrolled the map she’d brought with her and directed her mount in the appropriate direction. The Ruins of Lordaeron fell behind her, then Brill, then Chillhearth Manor.

Death Knell was not a pleasant place to be, the foliage was scraggly and the buildings were falling apart. Doubtlessly the undead didn’t mind, perhaps there was some advantage to not being able to feel cold, but the Rogue found herself possessed of the desire to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Considering that she was looking for what was, apparently, the Forsaken’s answer to a Priesthood the melting church seemed like as good a place to start her search as any. Her boots clicked against the stone steps as she mounted them and pushed open the door.

The pews were skewed and, in places, broken. Debris was scattered across the floor. The only occupant aside from her was a Forsaken woman in a black robe; at the sound of the door opening she turned to stare at Valeera with glowing orange eyes.

“Hello.” She rasped in a dry, broken voice. “It’s not often that one of the livings finds their way to Death Knell. Is there something particular that I can help you with?”

“I’m looking for information that may be of use in…helping a friend.” She said. “I tried translating it myself but Silvermoon doesn’t have any useful information on Shath’yar. I was pointed in the direction of your order because, well, to put things bluntly if anyone would be able to tell me what Al’gothoth means it would be a Shadow Priest.”

“Al’gothoth.” The Forsaken repeated, rictus face contorting onto an expression she couldn’t identify. “Interesting.”

Valeera didn’t find the matter ‘interesting’ at all. “You know what it means?”

“Shath’yar is a difficult language to translate directly into any mortal tongue.” She said. “But the clearest translation would be ‘Son of the Wolf’. Is that of help?”

Son of the Wolf. Al’gothoth meant Son of the Wolf! Anduin was still himself; couldn’t have made a more clear advertisement of that fact to those who’d bother to investigate the matter if he’d tried! “Yes.” Valeera was already headed out the door and towards where she’d left Leto.

Dark Cleric Claressa watched the griffin fly away before leaving the dilapidated church. She found Dark Ranger Velonara leaning against one of the nearby building’s tilting walls, examining the fletching on her arrows. “Something I can help you with, Dark Cleric.” She asked.

“I’ve information the Dark Lady might be interested in regarding the Alliance’s missing King.”


	16. Waiting Games

Stormheim was a primordial landscape of autumnal forests and towering mountains, dotted in places with architecture which was unmistakably Vrykul in origin. The powder sky was covered over thickly in thunderous clouds and the air smelled of salt and ozone. The resemblance of the place to the Howling Fjord far to the North wasn’t one which was lost on Velonara nor was it one which the Dark Ranger particularly appreciated. The sooner she could get her reason for being there over with, at least so far as the former High Elf was concerned, the better.

The general exposed dreariness of the Forsaken Foothold made it all the worse: there wasn’t much there beyond a few tents and a lift which clung tenaciously to the lip of a crumbling cliff face and the crawling scrub which infested the area offered perfect cover for any lurking Worgen which might have been about. Why the Dark Lady would be here of all places she couldn’t fathom but it wasn’t really her place to be asking that sort of question and this was where she’d been pointed to so this was where she’d gone.

Whatever doubts she might have had regarding the accuracy of the foot soldier’s claims were largely put to rest when she caught sight of the Dark Ranger Lord tending his bow beneath the awning of one of the tents. He looked up when she approached, eyes narrowing.

“Dark Ranger Velonara.” He said gruffly, not bothering to rise. “I believe you have work to be attending to in Tirisfall Glades. What are you doing here?”

“I was passed a piece of information that the Dark Lady will likely be very interested in.” She said. “I’d thought it better to inform her of it myself rather than send a grunt or a letter.”

“Between clashing with the Alliance, looking for the Aegis of Aggramar and her own personal pursuits the Banshee Queen is far too busy to be bothered with trivial concerns.”

“I wouldn’t call what has happened to the Alliance’s High King a ‘trivial concern ‘.” She said. “He’s not missing. And he’s certainly not Human. Not anymore.”

The former Ranger Lord continued to glare at her a while longer before picking up his bow and rising to his feet. “Come with me.”

He led her down a narrow animal trail which curved away from the camp and over the shield of the cliff top. The Banshee Queen stood atop a boulder which jutted out over the edge of the cliff, her tattered cloak and long blonde hair blowing in the cold salted wind.

“What is it, Nathanos?” Her tone was sharp and she didn’t turn to look at them.

“My Lady,” he said, “Dark Ranger Velonara claims that she has urgent information in regards to the Alliance’s missing High King which you’d be interested in. If what she’s told me is to be believed, and admittedly it’s very little, Anduin Wrynn is both no longer missing and no longer Human.”

“What truly happened, then?” she turned, red eyes glaring ruby bright. “Did Greymane lose his temper and then lock the lion brat in a closet to hide the fact he’d turned him into a Worgen from the rest of the Alliance?”

“I wish that were the case, my Lady. Anduin Wrynn as a Worgen would hardly be of much concern.” Velonara said. “But he isn’t a Worgen. He’s a Shath’yar.”

Even the wind and the waves far below them ceased. “What?”

“I was seeing to a matter of least concern in Death knell when I was approached by one of the Dark Clerics who had information they insisted you’d be interested in, Dark Lady.” Velonara said. “A Blood Elf Rogue arrived on a white Griffin, which was strange in and of itself as the beast was clearly bred from royal stock, locking to have a word, a title, translated out of the language of Shadow. Al’gothoth. Son of the Wolf.”

“And who could possibly be the owner of that title?” Her black lips turned upwards into a sharp smirk. “Is that all you have to tell me, Velonara?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Very well. Return to Tirisfall Glades.” Sylvanas said. “Blightcaller, remain.”

As the Dark Ranger moved back up the narrow path, Sylvanas turned back to the sea and sky, though what she saw wasn’t the tumult of blue and grey but the memory of that dream. That nightmare that shouldn’t have even been possible. A product of a power so incredibly potent that it could break reality itself and force the undead, who couldn’t sleep, to dream.

N’zoth, the Lord of Slumber; the Corrupter; God of the Deep Places. And now Al’gothoth, his Heir. An Old God created from a too kind, too trusting Human who was little more than a child. A being which held powers beyond mortal imaging and could, if its teasing was to be believed, even undo undeath. Could, potentially, put an end to her fears of damnation more permanent than even her Valkyr were capable of. Could certainly, at the very least, utterly annihilate the Alliance and insure absolute Horde supremacy under her rule.

How quick her detractors were to compare her, especially with her more recent actions, to the Lich King. She’d show them all better by achieving something Arthas could never eve have imagined.

“The Old Gods, if history is to be believed, were ruthless enemies of one another were they not? It wouldn’t be too presumptuous to assume that the blood of one could hurt another?” The sharp tips of her gauntlets clicked together. “I want a message sent to Gallywix, Nathanos, and then one to the Royal Apothecary Society. The Bilgewater Cartel are to send an expedition to Northrend: they’ll be paid a handsome commission on the Saronite that they bring back. The Royal Apothecary Society is to begin work on a strain of Plague strong enough to enslave a God.”

“I’ll see to it that it’s done, my Lady.” Nathanos said. “Do you have any other orders for me?”

“Once you’ve finished, return to me. I’ll have a last letter for you to take to the Twilight’s Hammer’s new leader: as my Champion, Nathanos, I can trust you with the job of playing nice with the Shath’yar until he finds himself in a situation where we can exploit circumstance or weakness to cage him.” She said. “The Old God could turn out to be our future, even beyond what I’ve been here searching for. _Do not_ fail me.”

“I’ll send word to the Goblins and the Under City and will set out for the Twilight Highlands immediately upon my return.” He said. “If the Twilight’s Hammer functions under Wrynn in any way even remotely similar to the bureaucracy of the Kingdom he left behind then, as the representative of the Horde, I should find contact with him with a fair amount of ease. If not, I’ll do all in my power to claw my way into a position where I will.”

“You have my full permission as the Warchief of the Horde to do whatever you must to make our desire to work with him believable. Now,” she turned away from the ledge and jumped down off the boulder she’d been perched on, landing on the unstable ground with a grace unique to elven Hunters, “we both have things to be doing.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Yet again, Anduin hadn’t allowed the emotional blow to keep him down for very long and was up and about in what had all but become the war room of the Bastion well under way of putting together the plan for the Hammer’s expedition into the Blade’s Edge Mountains by the time Wrathion managed to find him that next morning. The top of the table was covered over with a clutter of papers and tomes and inkwells and feather quills: more than a few of the notes and points of interest and even some of the maps had recently been drawn up as evidenced by the splotches of black ink splattered and smeared across his consort’s cool toned skin. Thyrai was speaking to him in a voice too quiet for Wrathion to make out at the distance currently between them, occasionally pointing at something or another on the map strewn table.

“Dear one,” the Mage fell silent and Anduin looked up as Wrathion announced his presence in the room and approached; as the Dragon had expected the shadows of poor rest had begun to gather under the Priest’s eyes like crows, “did you sleep at all last night or did you just wait until I wasn’t watching to slip out of bed?”

“I slept for a few hours, yes, but I needed to get started on this: I didn’t consider the matter prior to last night but I’ve realized that the Dark Portal is a weak point in Azeroth’s defenses. One which would be clever of the Legion to use and we have to keep an eye on.” Anduin turned back to the maps and grumbled “and, I’ll have you know, I didn’t _sneak_ anywhere. This is my citadel and I’m free to go anywhere I wish to at any time.”

“Of course you are.” Wrathion couldn’t help but grin at the half glare the former King threw him. “We’re going to be…visiting my older brother soon and…requesting that he allow some of his children to return to Azeroth and assist our efforts. Because you’re under the untrue impression that I’m ‘lonely’ and ‘in need of interactions with my own kind’?”

Anduin let out a rather exasperated sigh. “We’ve been over this.”

“We have.” The Black Prince agreed, the bangle in his ear clicking quietly. “But let’s not get into that again, love. When will we be leaving?”

“Soon.” Anduin told him, leafing through a small pile of papers and pulling out the one that he wanted. “As soon as we have everything in order. The quickest route to and through the Blade’s Edge Mountains. Places to stop and rest which will be out of the way of both Horde and Alliance settlements and forces still in the area. Where, exactly, Sabellion and his brood are staying. Thyrai has been of great help, having once been a part of Kaelthas’ forces she’s fairly familiar with many of Outland’s territories.”

“And if my brother decides he doesn’t want to be reasonable?” Wrathion asked.

“Then we act in self-defense, at least so far as it takes for us to get out of the situation.” Anduin said. A pair of short knocks on the door put an end to their conversation before the matter could go any further. Turning to look towards the door with curiosity lacing his expression the Shadow Priest called “yes?”

“Master,” Lazarus’ voice was immediately recognizable, “a man calling himself Blightcaller has arrived at the Citadel’s gate claiming to have been sent by the Warchief of the Horde. “

“What?” Wrathion and Anduin exchanged a telling glance. “He’s still down there?”

“Yes. He claims to wish to see you and is carrying a missive which is supposedly an offer of friendship from the Horde.”

“Thank you, Lazarus.” He said. “Tell this ‘Blightcaller’ that I’ll speak with him in a moment.”

“You’re going to speak with him?” Wrathion sounded alarmed. “I’m aware of who Nathanos Blightcaller is, Anduin; he’s the named Champion of the Banshee Queen. The Dark Lady can’t be blindly trusted, not with what she’s done in the past.”

“You’re right, Wrathion, to think Sylvanas should be handled with a fair amount of…caution. Her treatment of Gilneas alone is enough proof of that.” Anduin said, stepping away from the table and lifting his staff. “However, that’s no reason to turn down the Horde’s friendship when we currently hold a position which can generously be referred to as tenuous. We will, of course, be keeping an eye on them and their intentions: if we have any reason to suspect we’re being led we’ll disengage. Acceptable?”

“You’re the Hammer’s leader, Anduin.”

“And a leader who takes no account of others is a poor one.” He said. “Well.”

“I still have misgivings, but knowing you’re not running into this unthinkingly…I suppose I can admit the point you’ve made about the benefits outweighing the risks. At least for now.” The Black Prince said. “Shall I take you down to speak with him?”

Anduin smiled and started towards the door. “Please.”

The sun had only barely begun to rise over the Twilight Highlands, staining the horizon in hues of pink and orange and casting the land in shades of grey. The air was cold and damp with the harsh wind off the sea and the shadows cast by his wings stretched long across the citadel below them as Wrathion soared down in loose circles towards the uneven ground.

Anduin leaned forward in his perch atop the Black Prince’s neck and looked down. A man dressed in Hunter’s chain mail cast in dark tones stood at the gate of the Citadel with a green hound at his side and a scroll in his hand. Despite being surrounded by armed Cultists who, at the current moment, looked less than friendly the man appeared outwardly calm.

Wrathion made a point of landing with a great deal more force than was necessary and bared hundreds of razor sharp teeth. Anduin let out an exasperated noise before sliding down off of the Dragon and onto the ground.

“Enough, Wrathion. You’ve gotten your point across.” He said, straightening his overcoat. “If you’re not careful one might get the idea you took lessons in being over protective from my father.” The Dragon huffed and stretched his claws, tearing up the ground even further with the sound of breaking rock. “Are you going to turn back?”

“No.” He growled, red eyes set on the Hunter. “I thought he ought to see _both_ of our real faces, my dear. And be made aware of just what he’ll be dealing with should he have something devious in mind.”

Anduin sighed, briefly grabbed the horn on his muzzle in a firm grip and then started towards the disturbance at the gate making a point of ignoring the way the ground shook beneath the Dragon’s footsteps. The wall of Cultists parted before them and he trotted to a stop a few yards back from the Hunter. Aware he was being examined and examining him in turn.

It was notable, and strange, that the supposed Forsaken didn’t look in any way withered like the others he’d seen. The matter smelled of unfamiliar Dark Magic and left the Shadow Priest wondering what manner of things the Banshee Queen had been getting up to.

“Nathanos Blightcaller.” The slightest shift in the man’s expression revealed his surprise at being so swiftly identified. Anduin grinned, revealing his pointed teeth. “You shouldn’t be so shocked, Champion of the Forsaken. My Hammer’s reach extends quite far.” He said. Behind him, Wrathion hissed. “I’m told you have something for me?”

Stiffly, Nathanos held out the scroll. “The Banshee Queen has become aware of the power that the Hammer now holds. The Horde doesn’t wish to make the same mistake as the Alliance in raising the ire of an Old God. Especially not when we’ve already the Legion to concern ourselves with: an opponent against which your assistance could well prove invaluable.”

Anduin eyed the scroll dubiously a moment longer before he took it. Unrolling the paper and swiftly reading it over, aware that Wrathion was looking over his shoulder. The letter revealed very little but raised no alarms and that in itself was a point of mild concern.

Better to keep the matter in sight than let it slip into the shadows. Rolling the scroll back up again, he tucked it away. In his belt. “My Hammer is strong but our numbers are few compared to the dominant Factions of this world. For that reason, among others I’ll not name, I’m more than pleased to accept the Horde’s offer: your ‘friendship’ will be of use in finding shelter in our coming expedition to the Blade’s Edge Mountains.” The hand which Anduin extended towards him was regarded briefly with bald disgust before he took it,” he was well aware that the Dark Ranger Lord’s attempt to crush his fingers was fully purposeful. “Welcome to the Twilight Citadel.”


	17. Pillow Talk of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter. Anduin isn't as naive as Wrathion fears and reveals himself to possess a kink the Black Prince didn't expect

“I don’t like it.” Wrathion said after a prolonged period where the only sound had been their quiet breathing; a rare lull in activity which didn’t involve recovery on Anduin’s part from some new emotional blow. “It’s been five hours since that Dark Ranger got here and already he’s poking his nose in all manner of places. Trying to go places where he shouldn’t. It’s a lucky thing that the Mantid, at least, have initiative and have taken to patrolling the skies around the entrance of the Bastion because the Twilights certainly can’t be bothered to move their tails when not directly called upon for something transmutable to bragging rights and Blightcaller would be impossible to keep out when his ‘representation’ isn’t needed!”

The Priest, who had formerly been at the lethargic edge of sleep, sighed heavily and raised his head from where it had rested against the Dragon’s chest. “Wrathion,” there it was again; that stern, patient, overly understanding tone which had oft driven him near to fits back at the Tavern and which he’d come to miss so deeply in their years apart. “You’re over reacting.”

“Overreacting?” the Black Prince spluttered. “ _Overreacting?_ Anduin Llane Wrynn, how anything as thoroughly naive as you are ever made it long enough in life to meet me to begin with is an absolute marvel in regards to the failure of natural selection!” Not that he was displeased over the fact that in a world which operated on the axis of ‘survival of the fittest’ Varian Wrynn had been fit enough to drag his son along with him for the ride.

“I am not naive.” His words had frosted slightly, those kaleidoscope eyes narrowing through the thin pall of shadow which hung across their darkened bed chamber. “You worry far too much, my dear Dragon. Speak of things as if I’ve turned a blind eye the new Warchief’s hand. I didn’t trust you when we first met; I watched and listened and waited. Why would I do any differently for him?”

“Watching isn’t enough, Anduin! You should have been taught as much in that regard when I betrayed you!” It was a sore point, still, for both of them. Wrathion’s voice roughened and Anduin cringed but didn’t pull back, retaining his position draped half across his consort’s chest as the Dragon reached up towards him. Leaning into the too warm taloned hand which came to rest against his cheek. “I betrayed you, and I loved you. I loved you more than Azeroth itself. I still do. And I couldn’t bear it to lose you again, potentially forever. What might he do at the Banshee Queen’s behest? Sylvanas is just the type who’d think to benefit from using a Shath’yar’s powers to her own ends.”

“I said that I was watching.” Anduin lay one of his own hands over the one which Wrathion had rested against his cheek; cold and soft; pale as moonlight against the Black Prince’s sable tones. “Not that I was _just_ watching.”

“You intend to do more?” Relief warred with reluctance to believe that Anduin’s idea of ‘doing more’ would actually amount to anything meaningful. Wrathion’s instinct, perhaps tracing back to the paranoia, the near neuroticism, that his Flight had always been known for, was to fling the Dark Ranger Lord off of Grim Batol to see if he could fly (though perhaps sparking a premature clash with the Horde was a bit of an uncalled for response).

“Intend? My dear Dragon I’m _already_ doing more.” The former King informed him, resting his head back on his chest. “Word has been sent to Chanell Brisksorrow; if this is some manner of plot by Sylvanas to force my hand to her benefit the Royal Apothecary Society is sure to be involved. I doubt we’ve real concern with the Plague provided that this body is the only one subjected to it but its better I avoid being kidnapped to begin with. Not only have I had more than enough of ending up in that position by now, I’ve better things to do than waste time breaking out of Under City. In the interim I’m having Nathanos looked into; perhaps he can be clawed over to our side. If not, there are things which can be done to make it seem so from the outside. A breakdown of trust with her only point of contact with us will invariably cause a bit of an upset in whatever plan that she might have. And, if done right, our relationship with the Horde won’t be soured in the rather unlikely event they really do only wish to be friends with my Hammer.” Anduin said. “Does that help at all?”

“A bit.” Wrathion buried his clawed fingers in his Consort’s hair, let down for sleep and curling slightly near the tips where it fell about his shoulders. “Though I still don’t think you should have allowed him anywhere near you.”

“You’re going to get along with my father like a house on fire, at least in regards to matters of my safety.” Anduin grabbed loose fistfuls of the Dragon’s sleep shirt and rolled off him, pulling the Black Prince on top. “Now, since you’ve seen fit to keep me up a while longer you can at least make it worth my time.”

“My dear,” the Black Dragon resisted, though with little effort, the Shadow Priest’s efforts to tug him down, “you’re barely awake. You could very well fall asleep on me midway through, despite how incredible I am as a lover.”

Anduin’s response was delayed by a cavernous, tongue curling yawn. “Don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” Wrathion repeated, allowing more of his weight to fall onto the smaller male below him. Pressing him deeper into the luxurious mattress. “But what if you _do_ fall asleep, my dear?” his hot breath fanned across the blonde’s pale lips as he spoke, red eyes staring into bleary half-lidded blue and violet ones. “Would you really want me to continue?” Wrathion began to kiss and nip his way along the curve of his strong jaw, staring at the corner of his mouth. “To go through with it, with you lying unaware beneath me?” his lips were at his ear now, running his tongue along the outer shell. When Anduin shuddered beneath him it was with the unmistakable tint of desire. “Oh, what’s this? You _want me_ inside you while you’re asleep. Leave it to the Lord of Slumber.”

“Mmf.” Anduin wrapped his arms around Wrathion’s shoulders, limbs heavy. Clumsy. When he spoke again his words were slurred. “So what? Would you be opposed?”

“Opposed? No. Though I’ve never done something so…unabashed. You’re wonderful, glorious always. Now. Back then. But I’ll have to admit curiosity as to whether or not you’ll feel different like this. And whether or not you’ve always had this little venture in mind or if it’s a new development.” Wrathion gently nuzzled his Consort’s cheek. “Would it please you?”

Another noise, less discernable this time, as Anduin tugged on the Black Prince’s clothes. “If you don’t help me out of these now you’ll be doing all of the undressing yourself.” Another yawn, followed by rapid blinking in an effort to keep himself awake. His grip slackened but held, if only barely.

The Black Prince purred, taking Anduin by the wrists and freeing himself from his grasp and pinning his hands instead over the blonde’s head. Attacking his face, mouth and throat with tender kisses. Ignoring the Shath’yar’s sleepy grumble of protest. “I don’t mind doing a bit of work in return for such substantial rewards.” He said between kisses. “You, my dear, should just relax. Do tell me what your dreams were like tomorrow.”

The former King attempted to kiss him back a few times, his efforts growing weaker every time, until he finally stopped responding. His breathing even. Body slack and warm with sleep. The Dragon’s purr grew louder and he drowned himself in his consort’s scent as he trailed down the gentle curve of his pale throat. Out over his shoulder, along the dip and curve of his clavicle. Removing the sleep shirt, button by button; revealing more and more of the smooth pane of the once King’s chest, rising and falling with an even cadence which tailed the metronome of Anduin’s heartbeat.

Once the whole of his chest had been revealed, Wrathion maneuvering the Shadow Priest’s limbs delicately so as to fully pull the sleeves of the shirt free, he moved onto the last article of clothing and freed Anduin from that as well before sitting back on his haunches to examine him. Relaxed and quiet, soundly asleep on his back and fully naked against the matress, skin smooth and hairless beneath the pads of his fingers as he again traced the patterns of vanished scars. Marveling at how absolutely vulnerable he looked even if it was mostly a deception; of the trust, none the less, that it showed.

Wrathion carefully ran his hand along the soft slope of his Consort’s inner thigh, rubbing a loose circle into the pale flesh before pushing his leg up and hooking it over his waist. Feeling the heavy drape of the limb across his back. Pressing a slicked finger against the furled pink opening the new position had revealed.

Anduin shifted as the Dragon added a second finger and began to stretch him open, expression flickering. Wrathion leaned over him, pressing their chests together, and resumed his earlier efforts of leaving bruise-like love bites spattered across his neck and shoulders.

As he removed his fingers and sank into the by now familiar warmth the Priest sighed and nested closer against the sheets. Lifting his arms up around his neck and falling into an easy rhythm. Listening to the quiet noises that the smaller male made, at the end becoming closer to awareness as he roused slowly. Burying his face in the side of Wrathion’s neck and rearranging his limbs with a leaden sort of languidness.

“How long have you been awake, my dear?” the Dragon asked, rolling off him.

Anduin made a protesting noise and rolled over as well, tucking himself against the Dragon’s side. “Not awake.” He grumbled. “Sleeping.”

“Talking.”

“Not talking. Sleeping. You’re imagining things.”

The Dragon chuckled and ran his hands through Anduin’s long hair. “Let’s meet in the middle and say you’re sleep talking, my dear, if you’re really so insistent.”

“Mmf.” As the cadence of his breathing evened once more into sleep Wrathion pulled the sheets over them both.

In the early morning Wrathion was more than just mildly relieved to see that his Consort was still curled beside him on the bed; at the very least it could now be safely assumed that they’d be going into the expedition to the Blade’s Edge Mountains with Anduin something close to rested. When spiral eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep, the former King pushed himself up onto all fours and stretched. Arching his back and setting joins popping all down his body.

“What time is it?” he asked, sitting back on his knees and rubbing sleep from his face.

“Early.” Wrathion said, grinning when Anduin sent him an unimpressed look. “I know that doesn’t really tell you much but it’s difficult to be more exact in a room with no windows.”

“I suppose that’s true.” He said. “No matter what ‘early’ really means we’ll have more than enough time to get everyone together and head to the Dark Portal.” Pulling his tie from his wrist and swiftly tying back his hair, Anduin threw his legs out of bed and stood up. “I’m going to clean up and get dressed. We should be through to Hellfire Peninsula by noon.”


	18. Through the Dark Portal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been way too long since i've done anything with this, and though i can't guarantee i'll update again any time soon i figured this was the best way to assure people i haven't abandoned this.

There was no trace of the area’s former life as the Black Morass left behind, and the region now known as the Blasted Lands lived up to its name in every aspect. The soil was a deep bloody red, parched to the point of cracking in places and prone to crumbling to a fine staining dust whenever even the slightest of pressures were applied. A haze of rusted orange hung in the air, blurring the horizon line, and the wind smelled like heat and ozone. Both Netherguard Keep and Okril’lon Hold had been left in the ruin state they’d been reduced to by the initial invasion of the Iron Horde into Azeroth, further signs of which were still visible in the scraps of armor and sharp edged iron str fragments littering the landscape alongside lightning burns and odd glassy rocks twisted by the energies of the Dark Portal, unleashed both when it had originally been opened and in the Second War when it had been temporarily destroyed.

The blazing heat of day had subsided into a frigid and unforgiving cold as soon as the sun had fallen below the mountainous horizon; it was nearly pitch dark in the absence of the stars, the sky covered over in a layer of thick violet clouds, and eerily still. Devoid of all but the hardiest of desert plants, his presence in the area had set whatever animals might have been living there running. Even the Demons which had been known to wander those grounds for years and the combined Alliance and Horde forced who’d been responsible for the grim task of watching the Portal since it had first reactivated prior to the Outland Campaign were nowhere in sight. And while that meant that the ease of access to the small Twilight Strikeforce he’d brought down with him from the Highlands in the north had shot up exponentially it didn’t bode well for the stability of the portal’s defenses.

For all that he knew, a ferocious battle was raging just the other side of the swirling green and violet gateway.

Blinking away the green and crimson afterimages of the Dark Portal which had become imprinted onto his retinas by prolonged staring and exhaling a silver cloud into the cold night air Anduin shifted his grip on Iapetus and slipped back down the far side of the crater which the portal sat dead center of towards where Wrathion and the others were waiting.

“I’m not certain if it’s good news or bad news, but there’s no one to see us on this side of the Dark Portal.” He said as all eyes turned towards him. “And there are no signs of the Demons that were here anywhere. Whether they’ve gone through the Portal or dispersed elsewhere I’ve no way of knowing and am not about to guess.  You’re all prepared to leave?”

“Our lives at your command, Master.” Lazarus growled, dark eyes set on what little of the Portal’s stone frame was visible from where they stood. Right and Left looked notably less enthusiastic. “Wherever we find the Legion they will suffer the same defeat as they did in the Highlands. Sargeras cannot stand against your power.”

Assenting murmurs spread through the group like wildfire. Violet flames flickered in the maws of the Twilight Wyrms and Drakes they’d brought with them. Anduin’s gaze fell heavy on Nathanos, the Dark Ranger Lord doing an admirable job of holding it while appearing unfazed.

“Is there word from Thrallmar? Or will my forces have to sleep in the open tonight?” he asked. “From what I’ve heard of Hellfire Penninsula it’s much the same as the Blasted Lands and I’d rather my loyal subjects be provided proper housing for proper rest if such is possible. And the Horde did claim you wished to be our friends.”

“Nazgrel and his remaining forces at Thrallmar have been alerted to expect us.” Nathanos said. It didn’t escape Anduin’s notice that the Forsaken refused to properly look at him. “Though I’ll advise you not to expect a great deal from an out of the way, long ago reduced to unimportance outpost ‘Lord of Slumber’.”

He couldn’t quite conceal the snide tint to his voice. Anduin’s head canted to the left, the dark of night making his kaleidoscope eyes instead appear pitch black. “A roof over their heads, at least, will be of greater worth than exposure to the elements. As I cared for my Alliance while mortal so I now care for them; perhaps the Dark Lady operates differently?”

He knew the suggestion, the intent to nettle which was plain in his tone, didn’t escape the notice of Nathanos or any of their watchers. Though the Dark Ranger Lord was plainly not pleased he knew better than to react without thought to his taunts while surrounded by cultists and vicious Dragons. Not that the Old-God-possessed-King in front of him would have required any of their aid.

“The Forsaken have no need of such things.” He said stiffly. “It’s a pleasure to serve her.”

“A pleasure to serve?” he repeated, words underlain with an inhuman chattering; more playful than threatening, but it plainly set the other on edge. “I may make a Cultist of you yet.”

Nathanos’ response was a sharp scoff but, again, he didn’t address the matter. “It would be best we not tarry here all night. Even if the Burning Legion isn’t waiting directly outside that portal we’re still a ways to travel before we reach Thrallmar.”

“Wise council.” Now it was his turn to sound half-snide. Anduin smirked, revealing his razor teeth, and turned to his forces. “We set off. Prepare for battle at a moment’s notice; we’ve no way of knowing what we’ll find on the other side of the portal.”

“You heard the Master!” Albion snarled, mantling his wings as the great sweep of his dagger horns caught what little light there was. “Move!”

Nathanos’ glare made it clear he wasn’t fond of being ordered around but he kept silent and the rest of their party swiftly clambered onto the backs of the Drakes around them. Grasping one of the spines on Wrathion’s leg Anduin swung himself lithely up onto his usual perch at the base of the Black Dragon’s neck.

“Ready, dear one?” his massive horned head turned towards him, red eyes flickering like embers in the dark.

Anduin’s smile revealed all his pointed teeth. “Let’s go kill some Demons.”

With a roar that ripped through the tense quiet which had fallen with the night Wrathion flung himself into the air, the Twilight Dragons swift to follow behind, and Nathanos bringing up the rear. Braced, now, for the horrificness of such sensations barreling through the swirling portal did nothing to phase him and his eyes quickly refocused to the brighter light of where they’d ended up.

Hellfire Peninsula stretched arid red sand and rock for miles away into the Twisting Nether, the sky a patchwork of green and violet threads tangled around a pair of brilliant moons. The Stair of Destiny, onto which the Dark Portal emptied, was stained and splattered with blood and Fell taint and, as expected a ferocious battle raged below them.

But it was the sudden numbing of sensation from his other body which immediately caught his attention, threatening to drag him down into a spiral of dread before he caught himself and pushed it away. Such things could be dealt with later.

Ripping Iapetus free of its cleverly disguised sheath Anduin leveled the point at the Pit Lord currently preoccupied with smashing a cadre of footmen like bugs beneath its clublike feet. “ _Twilight’s Hammer, to battle!”_

Eyes shot up to them and then shouts-alarm and anger mostly-went up around them before the blasts of Dragon’s breath exploded all around them. The blue-violet flames of Dazzling Destruction raining down on the heads of those below: too indiscriminate for Anduin’s liking even as he took note of many of the soldiers fleeing towards the Portal.

“Mind the defenders!” He snarled over the noise as Wrathion spiraled to the left to avoid a blast of Fel energy fired from the Pit Lord’s spear. “We’re only here for the Legion!”

At the last moment, the Dark Lady’s Champion changed his aim from a Dwarf to a Shivarra but Anduin still caught it and rolled his eyes. Spinning around on his perch and beginning to use the ridge of spines down Wrathion’s back as a means of clambering down towards his tail without being flung off.

“Anduin!” The Black Prince was forced to make another swift change of direction and only hunching down against his armor like hide prevented the once Human from losing his grip. “What are you doing?”

“Lower, Wrathion, I need to get down there!”

“It’s too dangerous!” The Dragon protested. “Just use your other form!”

“I can’t!”

“What do you mean ‘you can’t’?” he demanded, red eyes focusing in on him again.

“We’re not on Azeroth any longer! There’s no connection to N’zoth on this world!”

Wrathion snarled something guttural in Draconic which Anduin suspected was a curse and dove at the Pit Lord, unleashing a tide of fire that sent it reeling as he went. “We’ll talk more about this later!”

Anduin had little doubt of that much and couldn’t quite stop himself from rolling his eyes again. Leaping from his perch astride the Dragon’s tail once he’d dropped low enough that the impact with the ground wouldn’t do damage, the Shadow Priest tucked his shoulder and rolled. Leaping upward instantly and beginning to fire at every Demon that he saw; a hail of arrows and Shadowbolts pelting the Legion’s forces into oblivion.

Anticipating the Pit Lord’s explosion, he threw up a black barrier which gleamed like the night sky, shielding both himself and those around him with ease until the surging Fel died down.

He turned immediately back towards the Stair of Destiny. “ _Overload that damned portal! We can’t afford for the Legion to make another effort to use it at a back door!”_

The Twilight Dragons whirled around to face the Dark Portal, aiming their blistering breath at the green and black gateway. Flooding it with power until it sputtered and winked out; never quite disappearing but reduced to a small pinprick of black suspended between the massive stone frames. Renewed alarm went up around him but Anduin ignored it, one of the Drakes picking him up as it swept by and returning him to Wrathion’s back as he hovered above.

“We can return to Azeroth easily through one of your Rifts.” The Black Prince rumbled. “But what will they do?”

“There are smaller portals back to Stormwind and Orgrimmar in Shattrath City. Provided they can be bothered to go there they’re not trapped here. And that portal won’t stay shut forever.” Anduin spared the Dark Portal a final harsh glance. “Now, we head to Thrallmar; our first stop on the way to the Blade’s Edge Mountains.”


End file.
